the sound of your heart gets stuck in my head so i cant forget
by safeandsound13
Summary: Clarke finds herself in the middle of a rebellion without Bellamy by her side. The things done in the name of war, in the name of the rebellion—she isn't so sure what side to take. Not anymore. Mockingjay AU.
1. Chapter 1

_Start small. Start with what you know is real. My name is Clarke Griffin. I'm from district twelve. I competed in the Hunger Games. Once_ — _no, focus. I competed in the Hunger Games twice. Twice. I escaped. Bellamy…_ She squints at the sudden bright light, holding up her trembling, sticky, blood-stained fingers to shield her eyes. She doesn't have much time. They found her. _Bellamy was left behind. He was left behind._

"How many more times are you going to do this?" Murphy sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose, a tired tone to his voice unlike the usual contempt. He untangles Clarke's fingers from the glass shard without much difficulty, and it drops to the floor with a loud clang. Blood is still dripping down her arm and onto the metal floor of the vents they're crouched inside of. It's because Luna took out her tracker. No. No. It happened when she broke the window of her door and pushed her arm through to open it—the glass, the glass it pierced right through the bandage, opening the old wound.

She remains stiff under his touch as he examines the cut on her arm, pointing his flashlight at it. Sweat drips down the side of her face, pulse rattling in her throat as she tries to swallow down the dryness in her mouth. Her voice croaks when she finally gets it to work, "Until they stop locking me up."

He snorts, derisive, starting to unwrap what's left of the bandage with his slender fingers, dirt permanently stuck under his fingernails. "I hardly think the medbay qualifies as a prison, princess."

Clarke's head snaps up at the nickname, eyes narrowing at her former fellow tribute as she jerks her arm back roughly. She wraps them back around her knees. Her voice doesn't come out as strong as she'd like it to. "Fuck you."

"Maybe another time," he retorts, dry as he aims the flashlight into different directions around them, observing their surroundings. He pushes out another heavy breath, collapsing down across from her. He offers, clearly uncomfortable, "Nightmare?"

She freezes, free hand clutching into a fist and eyes sliding shut as a warm, freckled face flashes in front of her eyes. She pushes the image back, forcing her heart rate back to a normal pace. All the memories, they're haunted now. It's been days. Days of drifting in and out of consciousness, all the medication, all the people who came to see her, blurring together. _There is no district twelve_. Days without contact, without any confirmation he's—he's alive. He has to be. She wipes a damp strand of hair away from her eyes, inhaling sharply through her nose before opening her eyes. She opens her fist, stares at the tiny shell inside it. He asked her a question, she remembers. About nightmares. "I wish they would've just let me die."

Clarke stares at the butterfly bandage on his eyebrow instead of meeting his gaze. It's hard to make out the details in the darkness but he looks as miserable as she imagines she does. He pushes, skeptical, "You sure you don't just want some of their morphling? Works like a charm."

When she doesn't say anything, he continues talking, voice gruff in a rare moment of vulnerability, "I wish she was dead." Emori. They took Emori too. They're in the capital, they're in Polis. "I wish they were all dead, and we were, too."

She can't contradict him, because every second she's spent awake since being lifted from that arena she's spent wishing it was her they left instead, her who—who died. Nobody knows what they're doing to them, doing to them to make them talk, make them comply. Maybe they would be better of dead. She doesn't know what she feels, most of the time she feels numb. Some of it's regret, sadness, conflict, anger. A lot of it's anger—red, blood-boiling, destructive _anger_. Finally, channeling all of that, she assures him, that if she has to be alive, that if they won't allow her to die, she'll settle for the next best thing. "I'm going to kill him. I'm going to kill Wallace."

/.\

The first thing she registers is his fingers digging into her back, pulling her closer, even if their chests are already practically melded together. "Bellamy," she whispers, breathing into his neck, trying to memorize his scent. "You came back."

She pulls back slightly—not too far, never too far—so she can look at him, a sudden flash of chilling pain streaking through her system. It's not real. His fingers steal into her ear, thumb smoothing over her jaw. The corners of her mouth turn up slightly despite herself and for a second she lets herself believe it is.

His arms drop to his sides, and he takes a step back, and another, brows a hard arch on his face. He studies her face, brown eyes sharp on her blue ones, and something suddenly seems to click, eyes darkening. His voice sounds like it's coming from a million miles away and like he's whispering it into her ear all at the same time. "You left. You left _me_."

"No, no," she cries, and she tries to reach out to him, tries to hold his hand, or push back his hair, or fold her hand over his chest, but she can't move, can't even lift so much as a finger. Sweat seeps through her shirt, chest feels constricted like there's not enough air in the room, pulse throbbing loudly in her ears.

She jolts awake when there's a knock on the door. She takes a second to catch her breath, adjust her eyes to the bright lights of her room in the medbay and smooth out the covers before croaking out a, "Come in."

She runs a hand over her hair, swallowing thickly as an unfamiliar man appears at her bedside. He can't be much older than her, dressed in all black, face evoking nothing from her but neutrality. "My name is Shaw. I'm in charge of security around here."

 _Here_? She still can't quite wrap her head around what that means. District thirteen, an old bedtime story from when she was a little kid. He seems to notice the confusion on her face, eyes crinkling like he might smile, but he doesn't. "We call it Mount Weather, it's a bunker. A remnant from before the war. Polis doesn't know it exists."

Polis. She pushes her legs off the bed, sits on the edge, fingers digging into her sheets as she forces the pounding headache to take a backseat since there's more pressing matters at hand, teeth gritted together. "Is there any news?"

"I'm just here to pick you up," he says, dismissive, eyes raking her face. The girl on fire probably isn't all they've talked her up to be, not like this. His tongue darts out to wet his lips, and then he adds, "You're being discharged today. President Diyoza would like to meet with you."

She nods, barely noticeable—racking her brain for what all of it might mean, the fact he's not allowed to tell her anything, the fact the president of district thirteen is so interested in a nobody from district twelve—then forces herself to nod again, this time more firm, sure.

She slips into some boots, still wearing the grey jumpsuit one of the healers gave her earlier, and doesn't even bother smoothing over her hair. If the president wants to meet with her, she should meet with the real her, see with her own eyes she made the wrong decision picking her over Bellamy.

Their arms brush when they enter the elevator and he close-lipped smiles over at her politely even if she's blinking at him like she's just seen a ghost. The slightest of touches has her on edge these days. She straightens her posture, only feels like she can breathe again when the doors ping and slide open.

"I thought Polis bombed everything on the surface to rubble," she checks, when they walk down a long, narrow hallway. There's people everywhere, dressed in the same grey jumpsuits; some of their gazes linger on her, others whisper low under their breaths, nudging each other. She doesn't recognize any of them. "We were told there was nothing left of thirteen."

"They did. Luckily, we don't live on the ground but under it," he responds, without giving it much thought, like he's had this introductory talk a million times. There's a certain kind of confidence surrounding him that's hard to describe. They climb a stairwell, and he pauses in front of a broad door, a curious glint to his eye as he observes her. "We're military. We've been preparing for this, training. For us there was never peace. The war never stopped."

 _Peace_. When was the last time Clarke felt peace? Before the arena, maybe. The Blake house, waking up his arms. Perhaps. She's not sure she ever truly felt _peace_. He swings open the door, revealing some sort of conference room. There's big television screens on the walls, in front of it a large table with what must be at least fifteen chairs around it. At the head of it closest to her, there's Sinclair. Alive. He's in a wheelchair, lifts up a few fingers as a greeting.

"The girl on fire. There she is." Clarke's head shift to two people entering the room from the other side. Kane is one of them, the other one a woman in her late thirties. She must be Diyoza. Something uneasy settles in her stomach, overwhelmed with dread and confusion. "Madam President. May I introduce you to our Mockingjay?

Shaw closes the door behind him as the duo stops in front of her. Diyoza sticks out a confident hand, big smile etched onto her face. Like there's anything to smile about. "Ms. Griffin, I heard a lot about you. It's an honour to meet you."

The blonde eyes her hand, then shakes it, dazed as she stares at Kane expectantly, but the neutral expression on his face doesn't give anything away. Diyoza draws her back in, "You're very brave—" Clarke bites down a bitter snort just in time, and if the other woman notices, she doesn't say anything. The older woman's free hand comes up to cover their hands in hers. "—and I can't imagine what it's like to go through what you went through. I know how disorienting this must be be."

She doesn't. She never will. So Clarke's not sure they even have anything to talk about, the two of them. She's done being used to further somebody else's agenda. She's done playing the part they tell her to play. She just wants to go home, knock on his door and have him answer it like nothing happened. But, that can't happen because she's here, district twelve's a wasteland and he's—compromised.

"Clarke, President Charmaine Diyoza," Kane cuts in when he figures the look on the victor's face is getting just a little too hard, a little too pensive, forehead creased and their hands drop back down. Clarke wipes her clammy ones on her thighs.

"Please know how welcome you are. Unfortunately, we've known loss in thirteen, too," she reveals, regretful, hands clasped together in front of her. Is that supposed to make it all better? A beat passes and then she pulls back a chair, offers it to the blonde. "I apologize, I wish you had more time to recover but sadly, we don't have that luxury."

Why are they treating her like she's the key to all of this? She's broken, done. She can't even get an hour of sleep before waking up in a panic-sweat. Clarke sinks down beside Sinclair warily, watches Kane and Diyoza sit down in a chair across from them. With an arch of her brow, the older woman inquires, "Are you aware of what's a happened?"

The victor shakes her head lightly, not taking her eyes off the two of them. She's still tense, apprehensive when it comes to letting her guard down around them. She's still not convinced she can trust them, any of them. Not even if they've convinced her mother, and Wells. Who hides down in a bunker when the rest of the nation could have used their help years ago?

The screen behind Diyoza and Kane lights up, as she starts to explain, showing her grainy and blurry pictures of destroyed homes and innocent arrests around Panem. When she fired her arrow at the force field, she electrified the whole country. There have been riots, strikes and uprisings in over eight districts. They believe that it's the perfect opportunity to unify the districts against the capital. An unicum. If they let it dissipate, the spark, there's no telling when they get the chance again. It could be another 75 years, if not more.

It all sounds like a sales pitch to Clarke and she's not interested.

Diyoza smiles, folding her hands together on top of the table. "Everyone in thirteen is more than ready for this." They've been preparing, training, Shaw said.

Clarke slips her hand into her pocket under the table, rolls the little shell in between her fingers absentmindedly, considers her words for a moment. "What about Bellamy? Is he alive?"

"We don't know," Kane cuts in, eyes softening as he looks at her. He doesn't know why he does that, pity her with his weak smiles and compassionate looks. He doesn't know her. Never has. Does he think he manipulate her like that, play her? "We wish that we did, but there's no way for us to contact our operatives inside Polis."

Sinclair clears his throat, reminding them of his presence as he quietly informs her, "Polis has always suppressed communication between districts, but I know their system very well. With the right help, I managed to break through." Right. He worked there, prior to all of this, prior to them sending him back into the arena without every second-guessing their decision to do so.

She still doesn't know why they need her, why they're telling _her_ this. Kane smiles, and if she hadn't already been looking at him she would've missed the brief nervous tremble of the corner of his mouth. "All we need now is the perfect message."

Diyoza stretches out a hand over the table, like she's trying to assure her, but it feels too assertive. "Clarke, we need to show them that the Mockingjay is alive and well and willing to stand up and join this fight, because we need every district to stand up to this capital. The way you did."

It feels—it feels like too much. She never did _anything_. Everything she did, she did to save herself and the people she cares about. Not to save Panem from anything. She stabbed herself, because she didn't want to live after what they made her do. She fired the arrow, because she wanted them to suffer like she had. She just wanted to hurt the capital, like they hurt her. Blood must have blood. Now she's supposed to stand up there, like some hypocrite, and declare the opposite? They will see right through her.

Kane must not notice the defiant look on her face, because he elaborates on their plan like she's already agreed to it, like she can't _not_. "So we're gonna shoot a series of propaganda clips—propos, I like to call them—on the Mockingjay. Spread the word that we're gonna stoke the fire of this rebellion. The fire that the Mockingjay— _you_ started."

Her mind races, overwhelmed as her brow furrows together. They still don't understand. How tired she is. She didn't start anything. Not with them. She started a life after the Games, that's what she did. Now that's gone, too. "You left him there."

Sinclair stiffens beside her, must feel the anger physically radiating off her, and Kane's brow creases, empathetically. Diyoza leans back in her chair, pursing her lips as she searches Clarke's face. Did she really expect the girl on fire, the Mockingjay they want her to be, to sit back and take orders? Her voice doesn't waver as she presses, "You left Bellamy in that arena to die."

"Clarke, we're very apologetic that we couldn't save every vic—" Kane starts, rehearsed, but looking like he might mean it, too, but Diyoza breaks him off, gaze still insistent on hers. She's not stupid, knows just how to push her buttons within five minutes of meeting her. Maybe it's Clarke, maybe she's giving too much away, maybe she's not using her head enough. The president quirks an eyebrow. "He must be pretty important to you."

He is, but she doesn't need to know that. It doesn't matter. What Clarke feels for him—what she _thinks_ about him is irrelevant. Either way, it should have been him sitting here, not her. "Bellamy was the one who was supposed to live."

"Miss Griffin," Diyoza urges, calm, like she'll find a way no matter what Clarke's answer is. "This revolution is about everyone, about all of us. And we need a voice."

It's not. Not for her. It's too late for her. It's about him, everything is about him. If she needed a voice people listen to, it should've been him. People follow him. Not her. Never her. Then again, a boy from the Seam with olive skin and dark hair might not be the district twelve resident they want to be their symbol. They're all the same.

Maybe that's selfish. That she won't do something as simple as stand in front of a camera and recite a speech they wrote for her, even if it means a lot of lives might be saved. She doesn't care. Nobody ever came to save her. Except for one person. One person, and they left him behind to die.

 _We need a voice_. She straightens her shoulders, flats her palms on the table as she refuses to look away from Diyoza, pushes, "Then you should've saved Bellamy." She shoves her chair back and stalks out of the room, slamming the door behind her. She pauses with her back pressed to the door, eyes closed as she tries to steady her breathing.

Unexpectedly, Charmaine speaks first. Clarke can just make out her muffled voice through the door, if she tries really hard. "Maybe you _should_ have rescued him instead."

"No," Marcus insists and Clarke hates this. Hates being part of some plan nobody even bothered to tell her about. Hates that apparently Bellamy was never part of it. "No one else can do this but her."

A loud sigh follows and a beat passes. "That was definitely not the girl you described." Years ago, something like that might've stung her, might've made her reconsider what she was doing. Now, she knows better. She is not the girl they want her to be. She's just an angry, broken shell of the person she used to be. That's fine.

Her eyes spring open to find Shaw staring at her, eyebrow cocked and arms crossed over his chest. He doesn't say anything. Kane picks the conversation back up, "Obviously we need to make it personal. Remind her who the real enemy is."

There it is again. If only they spend half the energy and resources they spend on her on actually liberating the nation.

"She knows who the enemy is. That's not the issue. Unless she's forgotten." The president makes a point. Someday, somewhere, somehow Clarke _will_ find a way to kill Wallace. That she won't forget.

"There's explaining and there's showing."

Shaw takes her by the arm suddenly, pulls her away around the corner. She jerks loose from his grip, narrows her eyes at him but he just grins, like this is the funniest thing ever. "They would've come out in a second. Their voices were getting closer. Would you have prefered getting caught?"

He raises his eyebrows when she doesn't answer right away and she digs her fingernails into the palms of her skin. "Just bring me back to my room."

/.\

"I can't believe you're going through with this," Wells tells her, perched on top of her new bed as she haphazardly packs her bag. Clarke missed having something to do, most of the time. Back in the Victor's Village, there wasn't much more to do, but at least she could keep busy. Painting, or baking, _other stuff_ , too. Here, it's worse. They don't want her doing anything that might harm her, or might make her snap. She's their symbol. An unstable symbol, apparently. They'll see about that.

Her hands still, urging, "I need to see it for myself." Diyoza offered to transport her to district twelve, so she could see what Wallace did to her home. What he was capable of. She knew all too well what he was capable of, that wasn't the point. She knew it was just another ploy to get her to agree to be their Mockingjay, too, but she didn't care about that either. She wanted to see.

He presses one of his palms to his eye tiredly, before leaning forward, elbows bracketed on his knees. The bed dips as Clarke sits down beside him, puts her hand in between her shoulder blades. He worries about her. He shouldn't. Her fingers slide up to his shoulder and she squeezes, teasingly. "I still can't believe the _mayor's_ son, the boy who would rather get in trouble himself before telling the teacher one of his bullies broke the chess board, joined the _Rebellion_."

A strike of sadness flashes in front of his eyes at the mention of his father, briefly, then it's gone and the corner's of his lips are turned up, melancholically. "After our fight—I don't know. I had to do something. You were right. I had to atone for my father's sins. I had to do _something_ to prevent anything like that from happening ever again." He knocks his knee against hers, mocking her. "Besides, I knew one of these days they would get a hold of you. The girl on fire."

"You came for me, huh?" She lifts an eyebrow, unimpressed. "Not for someone else, let's say, I don't know… Raven?"

On her first day after being discharged, she'd joined Wells for lunch. Finn's girlfriend had been sitting at the same table, their shoulders brushing as they talked in low voices and ate their food. For the first time in her life, Clarke felt out of place with Wells, like she was intruding. She had barely had enough time to get reacquainted with him, and even if Raven did ask her to come back from the Games, that didn't mean they were buddies now.

"You seen Abby yet?" He'd asked after they exchanged awkward hello's, licking his plastic spoon clean as he took the lid off his cup of milk. Raven had scrunched at the sight and he'd taken a quick second out of their conversation to elbow her side and flash her a smile. It made sense now. How they'd met.

"Yeah, when I first got here," Clarke had admitted, ambiguous, picking at her beans with her fork. She wasn't sure how to be around her right now. She'd forgiven her, but that didn't change the fact everything was different now. That her mother hadn't killed her father. That they had spend so long living a lie. That they didn't _really_ know each other.

Raven had looked like she hated herself for speaking even before she'd finished the sentence. "I got your mom out, before the firebombs."

"Thank you," Clarke had said, ducking her head, feeling like she owed this girl everything. Her mother. Her life. It hadn't felt fair. "You didn't have to do that."

"I didn't do it for you," she'd snapped, automatic, grip on her knife turning her knuckles white. She hadn't been trying to take credit, even if that was what Clarke was used to. Always owing someone something for food, or sponsors, or acts of rebellions. Her shoulders had sagged and she'd let out a sharp breath, voice softer this time around. "I did it for Abby."

Maybe there'd been more to the story. More things Clarke hadn't known about her own mother.

Wells had looked uncomfortable. "When Raven got lashed for slapping you—they injured her spine." Clarke heart had hammered in her chest with dread as she put down her fork. She didn't dare look at Raven. Not yet. It explained the makeshift brace she'd been wearing when she came to see her before the Games—it hadn't registered then, she hadn't been able to consider anyone else but herself and her fellow tribute, but it comes back to her in a flash of memory. The limp. The brace. The wince as she'd passed Wells and turned the corner. "Your mom—"

Her mother was a lot of things, but she had always been a good healer at least. Raven's face had been neutral save from the dimple above her brow, breaking him off as she'd stabbed her knife into something that apparently qualified as a potato, "Abby saved me."

Another thing she'd indirectly taken away from Raven. Those lashings… She should've—she should've done a lot of things, made a lot of things right. Clarke had only been able to offer her a tight-lipped smile, before shoving her chair back with an apologetic glance. She could use some fresh air. Since that was impossible, a room without people in it would do.

Before she could leave, Raven had cursed something under her breath and reached out, taking a hold of her wrist. When Clarke had stopped dead in her tracks, she'd quickly let go. "Listen. Finn..." She had swallowed thickly, looking for the right words.

"I didn't know." Clarke had reminded her before she could. She'd tried to make sense of it, explain herself, justify him, maybe. _He wasn't just her boyfriend_ , Wells had told her, _he was her family_. At least that she could understand. "He probably thought he was never going to see you again—that he was as good as dead."

Her jaw had clenched. "He could've waited more than three days." Three days, and he'd been declaring his love for Clarke to the world, _making her look desirable_ , never even mentioning the girl waiting for him back home. She hadn't looked like she wanted Clarke's pity any more than she'd been trying to take credit for anything, so the blonde swallowed down another useless apology.

Raven's dark eyes had slid shut for a second and then she'd pinched the bridge of her nose, shaking her head lightly. "It doesn't matter okay? I just—I just wanted to say I realize what his death would've been like—" They found a kid near the borderlines after one of their clandestine rebel meetings back in twelve, Wells told her later. He went to get a healer and Raven could only watch as he deteriorated after eating a handful of berries. It was more than horrible. Torture, he described it as. "If you hadn't… If you hadn't _intervened_ —" Slid her knife into his neck, she'd meant. "And I… I shouldn't have said those things to you." _It should've been you._

Whether that's true or not doesn't really matter, she had more than paid for it. Those lashings—Clarke had felt queasy just thinking how hard they must have gone after her to damage her _spine_. The victor's tongued had darted out to wet her lips, putting a hand on top of Raven's shoulder briefly. "It's okay." Maybe they could start again, the two of them.

"Stop," Wells tells her, warningly, knocking his shoulder against hers and pulling her back from the memory. "You never want to talk about it. The girl on fire."

"That's because I'm not her. I can't pretend I am. Everything I did—there were never any acts of rebellion." She searches his face, hopes he understands, doesn't hate her, too. "I _wanted_ to die, Wells, during my first Games. And I wake up everyday wishing I had during the last one."

 _Maybe the fight is all we are. We torture, betray, kill._ It's what Luna told her, when Clarke had wanted nothing more than to find another way. She's tired, too tired. There's no fight left inside of her, so maybe there's nothing left of her. She's accepted that.

Wells' eyes soften and she forces a weak smile onto her face. "I'm not convinced we know any better than to hurt and kill each other." Even the people they love, they hurt. Is that really a world worth saving? "They want me to get in front of a camera and give people hope that it can get better if they just work together? It's not possible."

Wells' arm comes up around her shoulders. He offers her a bright, hopeful smile. She wishes it was still one of those times that would be enough. Just Wells and his stupid, sanguine smile. "This is district thirteen, Clarke. Anything's possible."

/.\

Everything in district twelve was rubble. The sheds in the Seam, the Merchant houses, the black market, the bakery and the butcher's shop, her mother's practice—all leveled to the ground. All but the Victor's Village. It might've been some sort of distorted message Wallace had wanted to get across in case she ever came back or simply a sick twist of fate, maybe—but more than anything, it felt like the smallest of blessings.

The only things she manages to salvage is her father's old pin, the Iliad and some other old books and and a few clothes. She'd stopped in the doorway of his room a little too long, staring at everything, untouched, just like it was before they left for Polis a final time. She'd been tempted to step inside and lay down in the bed—she wondered if it still smelt like him, that if she laid down memories might engulf her and not cause unbearable pain at the same time. She might never leave, if she did that, so she couldn't risk it.

There'd also been Skye, who she smuggles inside the bunker, for Octavia. Even if she won't talk to her. It might help.

"How's the baby?" She'd huffed when Clarke found her in the medbay, doing inventory, on the day of the victor's official discharge from medical care. She found out Octavia was working alongside her mother, who was teaching her the ropes of the job, since there were too many people and too little healers. When the blonde had just blinked at her, dumbly, Octavia had shoved a stack of metal basins away a little too roughly and snapped, "That has your name written all over it. I can't imagine he came up with that one."

"O," she'd started, but her mouth had felt dry and her hands clammy and she wasn't sure what to say to that. She did come up with the—the baby. Stupidly, she'd assumed she might find some comfort from the only person who cared as deeply about him as she did. Stupidly, because she was also the only person who had both a right and a reason to resent her for what happened. Octavia had always been good at holding grudges.

"No. Don't call me that," she'd yelled, voice as steady as ever as she slammed the clipboard that had previously been tucked securely under her arm onto one of the gurneys angrily. "Who the hell do you think you are, Clarke?"

"Octavia," she'd corrected herself, pained. She'd wanted her to understand, needed her to. She'd wrung her hands together, to keep them from shaking, letting out a breathy noise. "You know I never—"

She hadn't let her finish, eyes tiny sliths, "If you really loved him, you wouldn't have fucking left him there."

Clarke had swallowed thickly, pulse a gallop. _Loved him_. He was her family. Octavia was her family. But maybe she didn't feel the same, not anymore. She hadn't been sure phrasing mattered at a time like this, but it'd felt important to her to establish a difference between leaving and being taken away. "I didn't… I didn't leave him."

"No, but he was in there because of you, wasn't he?" She'd spit, long brown hair braided back sloppily, some strands falling out of it as she shook her head vehemently. "They told me, Clarke. They told me that the only reason the Quarter Quell was with victors, was because of _you_! Because you made Wallace a promise and couldn't keep it." Clarke had just stared at her, jaw slacked.

Octavia had breathed in sharply through her nose, turning away from her for a second with her palms pressed to her eyes. When she turned back, her gaze had been even more determined. "Can you look me in the eyes and tell me that deep down, it wasn't your fault?"

Her tongue had darted out to wet her dry lips, and she felt like a statue, frozen in place, numb. It had been her fault, but it wasn't like she didn't already know that. Like she didn't already know she made his life worse just by being in it. "I don't know what you want me to say, Octavia."

"I don't want you to _say_ anything," she grunted, chest heaving up and down irregularly, and it'd been clear this was the end of their conversation, the end of all of their conversations for a while. "Bring my brother back and then, _maybe_. Maybe we can talk."

Clarke had wanted to protest, tell her it wasn't in her hands, tell her she saw him every time she closed her eyes, tell her she didn't know _how_ , yell at her that that was all she wanted, but she hadn't been able to get her voice to work. Back in district twelve, they'd been neighbours and they'd had her brother. Now, district twelve was annihilated and they really didn't have any reasons left to speak. Not even the cat changed that.

After she comes back from her visit, that day during supper, Wallace broadcasts the first nationwide message since the Games. The entire network had been down since the arena imploded on itself—not a single misplaced commercial, twisted propaganda video or re-run of old victor interviews shown since that night.

Wallace looks serene, not a hair out of place or a wrinkle in his three-piece suit. He talks about the supposed peace they've known since the last war, how Polis is dependent on the districts, but the districts are even more dependent on Polis. He forbids the image of the Mockingjay, calls it treason, punishable by death. It's all not very unexpected or revolutionary.

He doesn't falter, doesn't even blink when he now addresses a camera directly, closing up on his face. "Justice shall be served swiftly. Order shall be restored. To those who ignore the warnings of history, prepare to pay the ultimate price."

It's deadly quiet in the mess hall as the screen turns black. Her heart pounds loudly in her ears, eyes narrowed at nothing. She'd expected to feel angry, seeing his face. She did, but she also felt… Useless. Sitting here, eating dinner like… Like nothing happened. Like she didn't feel like half of her wasn't missing. Like Wallace wasn't trying his absolute best to make Bellamy pay for what _she_ did.

"You should eat something," Wells tells her, nudging her hand with his when she still won't look away from the screen, slack-jawed. Static crackles through the room, and the tv flashes white. Cage Wallace's face appears.

He introduces himself, like the entirety of the nation doesn't already know exactly who he is, tells them to drop everything to watch his broadcast. Dread. The only thing Clarke feels is dread. She feels exactly like she did before they announced the Quarter Quell. Something bad was about to happen and she could do nothing to stop it. They want to put a stop to the speculation about what happened in the Quarter Quell, Cage says. The only way they can do that is to have someone there who was also in the arena. Emori, or Echo, or—

"Bellamy Blake, welcome," Cage smirked at the camera, pleased.

The plastic fork in her hand snaps in half, and Wells' hand is on top of her arm immediately, whispering assuring words but she can't hear anything, can't see anything, not anything but him. She shoves her chair back, and it clatters back onto the floor as she strides up to the television screen, trying to get as close as possible. She can feel eyes, a million of them, boring into her back, into the side of her face, but she doesn't care.

She misses the first few sentences of their conversation, too focused on the sight of him to also register sound. Finally, she makes out a semblance of sentence from Cage. "... talk us through what really happened on that controversial, treasonery night?"

"Well," he starts, adam's apple bobbing up and down visibly. "We tried to play allies, and I think in the end, that cost us." He looks fine; he looks clean, shaven, just the remnants of cuts and bruises on his skin. Maybe they're not torturing him, not yet. The whites of his eyes are more red than they're supposed to be, the slight tremble in his voice when he speaks, his nails digging into the leather of his armchair. He's not fine. He's not fine. "I just wanted to save Clarke, that's all I wanted."

Cage reappears and Clarke frowns, impatient. She's not interested in him. "But you were caught up in Jacapo Sinclair's plan?"

"No, no. We didn't know. They separated us—which was part of their plan, I guess—and that's when I lost her." He looks like has to search too hard for memories that only happened days ago.

"And the baby?" Cage fills in for him, eager. Clarke wants to reach through the screen and strangle him. _They_ send her in there, carrying a baby, setting her up to die. It didn't matter if it was real or not. Now he was trying to gain sympathy points on his behalf?

"Yeah, and the baby," he confirms, quietly, eyes darting everywhere but on the interviewer. "Then a cannon went off and I thought—I thought she was dead." She'd thought the same, back in that arena. She thought she'd lost him, forever. She almost killed Murphy because of it. "I had to find her, but then the lightning hit and the whole force field blew out."

Cage cocks an eyebrow. "Clarke blew it out."

"No." Bellamy's forehead creases, but he's insistent. Her eyes burn with unshed tears, at how much he believes in her, still, and she has to bite down on her tongue to keep them from falling.

"You saw the footage," Cage checks, in disbelief, and a small rectangle appears in the corner of the screen, replaying Clarke pulling back the arrow and firing it into the sky. Into the forcefield.

"No," he repeats, stern, but he swallows again, thick, like he might not believe it himself when he thinks about it. He sounds nervous, the slightest of trembles in his voice. The same insistence from before appears back onto his face and he shakes his head, as if to shake away the memories of that night. "She _didn't_ know. Neither of us knew… That there was a bigger plan or… We had no idea."

Cage snarls nastily, condescending. "Well, Bellamy Blake, there are many who find it suspicious to say the least. It seems as if she was part of a rebel plan all along."

He huffs, rough, his jaw clenching. "You think it was part of her plan to be almost killed by Luna? Or to be—paralysed by lightning? She could've died." She hopes he believes that, too, isn't just defending her. She never knew, she would have told him. He has to know that. He forces himself to take a deep, shuddering breath. " _No_. We were not ever part of any rebel plan."

Cage nods, brief, and then Bellamy is talking again but it doesn't sound like him, not really. She doesn't quite know how to explain it, because to everyone else it might sound exactly like him. He's speaking, his mouth is moving, they're his words. "I think—I think she was just angry. At the Games. They take so much away from you…" He shakes his head, more to himself. "And I think, maybe she just wanted to, make a final statement."

A final statement? She'd been angry. She'd felt helpless. She'd thought he was dead. She saw no way out but to die and take that fucking arena with her. She wishes she could've succeeded at both, but she didn't. So yeah. A final statement, maybe.

"All right, I believe you," Cage says, eyes darting off screen for just a second. He conveniently doesn't ask him to elaborate on what the Games take from you. Everything you are, nights without waking up in a cold sweat, being able to look at yourself in a mirror. Just to name a few. "Thank you. I was going to ask you about the unrest in the country but I feel like you might be too upset to—"

"No, no," Bellamy quickly cuts him off, ensuring him as he wipes his palms on his thighs. "I can."

"You sure?" Cage inquires, his head slightly tilted, faux-concerned. He's a bad actor.

"Yeah. Absolutely. " He shifts in his chair, something hard washing over his face as he sits up. She likes to think she knows who he is, that a few days couldn't have changed so much, and that what follows next isn't _him_. It isn't. "I want everyone who's watching to stop and to think about what a civil war could mean. We almost went extinct once before, and now our numbers are even fewer."

"He's one of them," someone says, shoving his tray away roughly. She feels Wells' hand wrapping around her wrist, hovering beside her. Raven is not far behind him, face dark. Clarke doesn't know her well enough to gauge if it's in favor of Bellamy or not.

He inclines his head slightly, voice soft and hesitant as he stares at the camera. "Is this really what we want to do?"

"Traitor!" A woman yells, slamming her hands on top of a table and something crashes behind them, metal onto the floor, perhaps. Clarke cranes her neck to look over her shoulder, meets Luna's eyes just as she pushes open the door of the cafeteria and disappears behind them. What does she think about him, that he's right?

His eyes are glazed over and Clarke can't help but to want to reach out and comfort him, then something darker washes over them, disdain maybe. "Kill ourselves off? Killing is not the answer."

"I can't believe he's doing this!" A different woman this time, throwing her cup against the wall beside the television, water splattering everywhere. Clarke, she can't, she can't breathe. She's looking at him, and he looks the same, but he's saying things that don't make sense. He would want them to fight. "Everyone needs to lay down their weapons immediately."

Clarke can't listen to it. Not to the "He's not one of us!" or the "It's treason!" or the "Traitor!" or the "He's Wallace's puppet!" or the "Hang him!". Not to any of it. She turns around, watches all their faces, the betrayal, and she can't do anything but stand there, chest heaving up and down irregularly. She might be crying, she doesn't know.

His voice echoes through the room from behind her. "I'm calling for a ceasefire. I want everyone to stop the senseless violence. It's not the path to change. It's not the path to justice."

She opens her mouth, closes it again. She wants to defend him, but she doesn't know _how_. Wells pulls her away and doesn't stop dragging her along until they're inside of his room.

"There can't be a ceasefire," Raven speaks first, after the door falls shut behind behind him and Wells' has her propped on top of his bed, making the motions for her. "Not after everything Wallace's done."

It's clear her best friend agrees, but he checks to see the state Clarke's in before he responds. "Most people are still afraid to join the rebellion. He could have done a lot of damage."

It's a polite way of saying he just fucked them over. Clarke snaps out of her catatonic state, rolling the tiny shell between her finger and thumb. She'd taken it out of her pocket without even knowing it. "Why do you think he said that?" Her eyes rake their faces for answers, mostly Wells' because Raven is unreadable. She doesn't understand. Clarke knows Bellamy. She _does_. Out of all people, he would be _for_ a rebellion. He was ready to murder Wallace himself. He would want people to fight.

"I don't know," he shrugs, but he's always been a bad liar. He glances over at Raven briefly, then grimaces. "Maybe he was forced."

"He didn't look that bad," Raven snaps, less concerned with Clarke's feelings.

Wells' opens his mouth, closes it again, conflicted. He probably doesn't want to defend someone who just publicly announced to be against everything he stands for, but he always tries to see everything from different sides. He's good like that. Then, settles on, "Maybe he made some kind of deal. To protect you."

Clarke's actually heart stops beating for just a second. _He's still playing the game._ She tucks the shell away in the inside pocket of her jumpsuit gingerly, then looks up at them. She finds Raven's gaze first, there's the dimple above her brow again, arms crossed over her chest. Her tongue darts out to wet her lips as she forces out, "I want to help. Nobody hates Wallace and everything he stands for more than me. I just keep thinking…"

Wells sinks down on the bed beside her, urging her on quietly. "Yeah?"

"I keep thinking… even if we win this, this war? What happens to Bellamy? You saw their faces, you heard what they said—he's not safe here. He's definitely not safe there, in Polis." _Blood must have blood._ "They tried to use him against me before, what's to keep it from happening again?"

Wells' exhales loudly, exchanging another glance with Raven before turning his gaze back onto her. "I don't think you realize how important you are to them."

"Yeah," Raven admits, uncrossing her arms. Some of the hostility deflates. "Their whole plan practically consists of you being their symbol of change. If you want something, you should just ask them. You have the leverage."

/.\

"Go away," Anya drawls, even though it's from sleep this time, not booze. Clarke doesn't budge and bends down to rip the covers off her head. "Get up, Anya. You can't wither away in this bed."

"Watch me," she mutters, defiant, rolling over onto her back and blinking at the bright lights in her room. Everything is bright and sterile down here, and none of it compares to actual sunlight. She rubs the sleep out of her eyes and Clarke notes she looks bad. Her hair is half-up in a messy bun, tangles in the loose strands, dark baggy circles under her eyes, red spots covering her skin. Anya without booze might be even worse than Anya with booze.

Clarke rolls her eyes. "They want me to film propos. Propaganda clips."

She demanded immunity for all the victors, full and unconditional pardons. Bellamy Blake. Emori St. Johns. Even Echo Olwyn? _Yes_. No punishment will be inflicted for them or any other tributes. District thirteen will try and save the hostages at the earliest opportunity. Those were her conditions.

Diyoza shot her down at first, uninterested. "Individuals don't make demands here in thirteen."

Maybe not individuals, but she was supposedly an entire movement. She channeled the Mockingjay, because _that's what she wanted, right_ , and when the corners of Diyoza's lips turned up, amused, Clarke knew she'd won. "It's not their fault you abandoned them in the arena. They're doing what they have to do to survive."

It costs Clarke something, her pride least of all, but she gets what she wants. For them to be safe. They train her, learn her how to hold a gun, shoot it. Just for the movies though, she's not allowed to go into the field and fight. Can't have her actually be a part of the rebellion.

"Congrats," Anya says, gruff, sitting up.

Clarke bites down on her lip. "Can you come?"

Wells will just try and encourage her. She doesn't want to be encouraged. She doesn't want them to settle for 'kind of believable'. It has to feel real. If it doesn't the deal she made with Diyoza might not be honored and she knows what happened the last time she couldn't come through on a deal.

So Wells is off the table. Even Murphy nowadays regards her like she might blow up any second. She thinks Anya is the only one who isn't afraid she'll snap, or bend, or break if she just so much as glares into her direction and also knows her well enough to notice and call her out if she sounds too insincere.

She pinches the bridge of her nose, inhales sharply. "You know they cut me off, right?"

"You know you kind of owe me, right?"

She did volunteer for her, after all. It wasn't exactly fair, because Anya never asked her to and she would probably never be able to pull this card on her again, but Clarke felt like it was worth it. Everything depended on these propos now.

Anya's eyes snap to hers, sharp. A tense, almost hostile moment passes, and then she breaks the silence. "Fine." She lays back down, turns her back towards Clarke. "Have them get me when you start shooting. But not a minute before noon, or the deal's off."

Clarke slams the door on her way out, just for good measure.

Luna finds her in the crowd later, as Diyoza starts her speech. They haven't really talked. Not since the breakdown she had in the hovercraft. She doesn't know on whose behalf that is. Murphy locks himself up in his room most of the time, like Anya, but Luna's bed is empty more often than not. Ground privileges, Wells had informed her. Clarke spent most of her time with him, some of it with Raven, too, when she wasn't holed up with Sinclair. He'd taken her under his wing after he found out she used to dabble with electronics in the Hob, the black market back in district twelve.

"How were you part of this?"

"What do you mean?" Her voice is low, arms crossed over her chest as she looks around at the hundreds of faces surrounding them, listening to thirteen's president announce the victors will receive immunity. Another part of the deal. Clarke wanted it to be as public as it could be, to make backtracking from it as difficult as possible.

Clarke frowns at the side of her face, for a few moments, chewing on the inside of her cheek, crossing her hand over her body to take a hold of her other elbow, then elaborates. "When we first met, you told me no one of us deserved to live. What changed? How did you go from wanting the human race to die out, to wanting to save it?"

She could use some advice on that. Not that she wanted everyone to die, but she was also not particularly jumping at the opportunity to save everyone. Most of the time, she was so overcome on the hatred, she was just thinking about ways to get to Wallace and kill him. That was her focus.

"I didn't think it was real," Luna admits, blunt, with a light shake of her full mane of curls. "You and him. Sure, you were friends, maybe you cared about each other, but—" She lifts a shoulder, unsure, and Clarke forces herself to train her gaze on Diyoza and nowhere else. A moment flashes in front of her eyes. _I need you_. How he'd looked at her when she'd opened her eyes, so fond and vulnerable, the kiss they shared afterwards. She pushes it away. "I thought you were doing it for the sponsors. The baby was obviously fake and he was always looking at you like a kicked puppy. It seemed like a strategy."

A strategy. Yeah, perhaps. One that was going to keep _him_ alive. That was always the goal. She's not sure she's even managed that. Still, it's not very pleasant to be reminded of all of this. It was very easy to shut that part of herself off, to regard it as weakness, remain objective. She saved the memories for her nightmares, because she couldn't escape those no matter how hard she tried, wasn't sure she could bear it all otherwise. Couldn't sit around all day and think about the mistakes she's made. The times she could've held him and didn't. "Why are you telling me this?"

Luna exhales loudly, glancing over at her out of the corner of her eye. "His heart stopped—he nearly died. It wasn't until then that I realized… you love him. I'm not saying in what way, maybe you don't even know it yourself." She lowers her voice for the next part, even though she might as well been yelling it into her ear, making the hairs on the back of her neck stand up straight. "Anyone can see it."

She knew, she knew that was between them was real. That they had a relationship that wasn't just convenient companionship, not anymore, not for a long time. She knew how he looked at her, knew how other people interpreted that, how much he cared about her, for her. She didn't know—had she been so careless? So reckless, too? Had she played right into Wallace's hand? Clarke just blinks at the side of her face, as Diyoza concludes her announcement to mixed responses.

"It's not about whether we deserve to live, Clarke," Luna says, softly, and Clarke still doesn't understand. Her thick brows furrow together. "Maybe some of us don't." She has a whole list of them. "It's about what you believe. I still believe that there's some good left in this world, some truth to the lies," she notes, gaze soft and empathetic. Suddenly it clicks. _Like you and Bellamy. Some good. Something hopeful._ "I still believe that because of that, we should put an end to this war. If we don't, thousands more will die. There are children, innocent people out in the district." She puts her hand on top of Clarke's shoulder, briefly, "Their souls can still be saved." Maybe not hers or Luna's, but theirs. Then, before Clarke can say anything or even process her words, she disappears into the dissenpating crowd.

/.\

"Lincoln asked to keep these for him," Anya reveals, thrusting black fabric into her hands. She at least looks like she had a shower this morning, so that's good. She still looks frail, too skinny.

 _Lincoln_. Her friend. Clarke doesn't dare look at the other woman, but forces a pained smile onto her face. She doesn't know who she's pretending for. "He's dead, isn't he?"

"Yes," she says, then awkwardly and a moment too late, reaches out to pat her on the shoulder. "He made Kane promise not to show you until you decided to be the Mockingjay on your own."

"It's beautiful," she admits, genuine. It's a uniform, all black, on the back it's decorated with subtle wings. Like the Mockingjay. She's touched, too. That he wouldn't let them use him as more leverage against her.

"At least you'll be the best dressed rebel in history." Anya, cynical, lips pursed as she perches herself on top of a table while Clarke slips out of her jumpsuit, and into the darker one Lincoln designed, straps herself into the armor. They're long past modesty.

"What am I even supposed to do?" The older victor asks later, when Kane brings in a prep-team to make Clarke's hair look presentable in it's signature plait and paint her face with dark colors, a bowl of carrots in her lap that she devours with a grimace on her face.

"I want to make sure it's convincing," Clarke says says, trying to keep her face as still as possible to keep one of the assistants from poking her in the eye with the pencil she's holding. "You were always honest with me. I need to… I need to be sure that it's…" She searches for the right words. She can't be weak, give Wallace more ammunition, can't stand there and sell lies. It has to be authentic. Everything depends on it. " _Objective_."

She cocks an eyebrow, like what Clarke is saying doesn't add up, breaking off a carrot in between her teeth. "When were you ever objective? When you volunteered for a deadly game so you could keep Bellamy safe?"

Maybe she is right. Maybe she's been weak this entire time, showed them too much of herself already. Maybe no one will believe a word out of her mouth. Maybe it's too late and she can't do anything to keep her promise this time either.

"Clarke," Kane walks in, cutting their conversation short. The blonde is still blinking at her former-mentor stupidly, until he repeats her name. "This is Harper McIntyre, in my opinion one of Polis' best up-and-coming directors."

"Heard a lot about you." Harper shakes her hand, firm and warm, like her smile. Her blonde hair falls over her shoulders, a small braid weaved into it, and when she turns her head to introduce her crew, Clarke notices half of her skull is shaved, a delicate, intricate, fine-lined geometric tattoo splayed across it. Capital fashion.

"This is Monroe, my assistant." Harper motions at a small pale girl, with ruddy hair plaited back from her face. She offers her nod in greeting. Their director tilts her head slightly, into the direction of a surly-looking, dark, broad guy. There's a beanie on his head and he's somehow sporting scruff and making it look good. "That's Miller. Our cameraman." Clarke meets his gaze, and he raises his eyebrows. He's not very impressed with her, she can tell as much, looking like he'd rather be anywhere but here.

Harper smiles, fond, almost, pointing her thumb towards the last unfamiliar face in front of the victor. "And that's Monty, our sound engineer." It's a timid looking, asian boy, who can't be much older than her. They all look young, too young. He smiles, tight-lipped, holding up a few fingers in a small wave.

"Nice to meet you," Clarke says, more out of habit, directs her next sentence to Monty, because he seems the nicest, a little bashful. "Did you all escape from—"

Harper shakes her head lightly, a sad twinge in her eyes as she interrupts her. "Don't expect too much chit chat on his behalf. He's an Avox. Polis cut out his tongue for stealing herbs from a garden when he was sixteen." She purses her lips in disdain, "Called him a traitor."

A crime against Polis is a crime against the whole nation, even if it's something as small as stealing some plants. Clarke holds back a snort, probably inappropriate. Harper sucks in a breath. "And it wasn't like that. We weren't rescued. We all fled, to come here. Come to you."

There's that familiar pang in her chest again. They all expect too much of her. With each second that passes, she's more convinced she won't be able to deliver.

"Don't get me wrong," Harper smirks, confident. "I would have loved to shocklash Wallace's fascist ass and hand him over to the rebels, but I was years away from being that close to the president. So we joined the movement."

"This is our home now," Monroe adds, boldy. "The place we want to fight for."

Home. District thirteen was a lot of things, but it wasn't _her_ home. When she thinks of that, it's not district twelve either, not the big lonely mansion in the Victor's Village or the old house she used to live in with her mother. It's two arms wrapped around her as she hovers in that blissful state between waking up and being asleep, a warm smile, flower in her hair from baking, Octavia's brazen laugh, paint-stained fingers, that stupid cat scratching her leg for attention, Bellamy's nose nuzzling her temple, the smell of fresh stew, the warm sun on her shoulders when they would sit on the gr—

Kane claps her on the shoulder, encouragingly, breaking off her thoughts abruptly. "Let's get this show on the road, huh?"

She nods, straightening the top part of her armored uniform. It's not too heavy, but it's nothing she's used to. She stands in front of a big green screen Monroe put up, they aim a big fan at her head, plaster a flag with the Mockingjay symbol into her hand, tell her to get on a knee.

"Okay, Clarke. You start down on one knee. As you rise up, you're gonna put up the flag and deliver your line," Harper instructs her, explicit, waving her hands into different directions. It all sounds easy, and it probably is, but it feels incredibly dumb. She raises an eyebrow, checks, "You've read the script, right?"

Clarke nods, after a beat passes, because for some reason the question takes longer to register than usually. Because she's thorough, Harper reminds her, "You've just stormed the outskirts of Polis, arm-in-arm with your brothers and sisters."

"Okay," she forces out, avoiding Miller's judgemental gaze as he lifts the camera back onto her shoulder. He came here for her, so this must be hard to watch. Harper must notice her nerves, because she puts a hand on top of her shoulder. "Whenever you're ready, okay?"

She signals for her cameraman to start rolling, and nudges her head slightly at Monty, who steps closer and adjusts the microphone above her head.

"People of Panem. We fight, we dare, we—" She breaks off, ducking her head as she presses her thumb and pointer finger into her eye sockets, careful not to mess up the make-up. This is bad. Very bad. There's people out there giving their lives, and she can't even deliver a few lines?

Harper stays optimistic though, compliments her every take, even when she stumbles on the words or trips over her own feet, gives her instructions on how to stand or which tone to use. Things she usually doesn't need direction on.

"Clarke, that was…" Kane starts, unsure look on his face when they finish the first full take in which she isn't grimacing.

"I have a few notes," Anya cuts him off, shoving the empty bowl off her lap and striding closer to the group of people she's been snarling at since they came in. "People of Panem, we fight? We dare to end this hunger for justice? This is how a revolution dies."

"Anya," Clarke starts, because despite not having amounted to much, she's tired and she isn't in the mood for criticism unless it's actually helpful. She just looks like she's bored and is in for an argument.

"Shut up," she directs at her former-trainee, crossing her arms over her chest. Her expression is like she's perpetually smelling something particularly rank when she turns to Kane. "People never liked Clarke for the flaming dresses or the hairstyles or the men proclaiming their eternal love for her." Her eye falls on Monroe, who looks like she might pee herself, and she nods at her. "You. Name a moment where Clarke Griffin genuinely moved you."

Clarke feels awkward just standing there, props in her hands, listening to them talk about her like she's not there. She guesses Anya's right though. At one point Monroe believed enough in her to leave her home and find a new one on enemy territory. She needs to channel that, those moments.

"Uhm," Monroe stutters, glancing over at Harper for a second. "When she saved Myles from the Careers." Clarke stares down at her boots, teeth gritted together. She didn't want to relive all of this, pretend like she did it with a double-agenda in mind.

"Excellent example," Anya compliments, but remains condescending without a doubt. "Next?"

Harper lifts a shoulder, indifferent. "When she sang that song for Finn." Monty nods, obviously agreeing as he smiles her way.

"Yeah, a real tearjerker that one," Anya says, cynical as she rolls her eyes half-heartedly.

"When she wanted Gaia and Sinclair to be her allies," Miller assists, eyes flicking over to her for the briefest of moments. "Madi, too." Her sweet little girl.

Resigned, figuring they might as well indulge Anya's suggestions, Kane adds, arms crossed over his chest, "When she volunteered for you."

Anya claps her hands together. "Good job everyone. Now, what do all of these have in common?"

Harper looks at her, a beam slowly spreading across her face. "No one told her what to do."

"Exactly. How about we leave the pep talks to our dear Mockingjay?" She grimaces, waving a hand into her direction. "And somebody wash her face. She's still just a girl and she looks about my age right now."

Her first unscripted speech isn't much, not holed up down in a bunker, safe, away from any real battles, but it's a far cry from her earlier performance.

"We need to stop this war. Not because I said so, or Wallace did, but because the longer this drags on on, the more people will die. The only way to stop all of it, the war, the hurt, the bloodshed, is to _fight_. Together." That word had meant something special, a long time ago. _That is what you and I do, we keep each other alive. Protect each other. Together._ Maybe it still could. "We _will_ win. So we can move past it, past the pain, get our second chance."

/.\

The day Sinclair and Raven manage to breakthrough the capital's defenses and broadcast her first propo, is also the day Wallace retaliates. Like he's been waiting in the shadows, planning this, expecting her to make the first move.

It's not Bellamy this time. It's Emori. She's sitting in the same chair as Bellamy had been, but there's some sort of metal collar around her neck, arms tightly tied to the handles of it. Her dark hair is plastered to her face and neck, chest heaving up and down with quick, shuddering breaths, as sweat trickles down her collarbone and disappears into her tank top. Her eyes shift around wildly.

A voice off camera asks her, "Can you confirm you're Emori St. Johns?"

"Yes," she whimpers, soft and then yelps out in pain as the collar lights up and seems to emit some kind of electric current, shocking her. "Yes," she confirms, steadier, once her eyes stop rolling into the back of her head and her fingers stop flexing around the handle of her chair. "My name is Emori! Emori St. Johns."

Murphy was still waiting in line—because they refused to bring it to him, he was waiting for his dinner just so he could scurry off back to his room—and Clarke's eyes found his instantly when his tray clattered loudly to the ground.

"Can you confirm you had direct relations with the so-called Mockingjay?"

Clarke's breath hitches in the back of her throat, nails digging into her thighs as she feels everyone's eyes on her. Everyone's, except for his. He's still frozen, staring up at the screen with glazed over eyes.

"Fuck you," she spits, actually spits at what Clarke assumes are the voice's feet, and she's rewarded with another shockwave. Her head falls forward, whole body straining to take the pain. When she lifts her head back up, her hair is stuck to her cheek. She inhales sharply, but doesn't say any more. In the bottom right corner of the screen, a rectangle shows footage of Clarke tending to Emori's wounds, back in the arena. She's pushing her hair back, gently, to assess the damage to her head, but they look close, closer than Clarke would have pegged them to be. Another clip, of them sharing a smile Clarke doesn't even remember, might have been edited.

"If we wanted to get a message across to the terrorist by the name of Mockingjay, many might think we should have started with Bellamy Blake. The father of her child. Can you explain why we didn't?"

She chuckles, stupid as she rises her chin to stare directly at the person across from her. "Because I stabbed a Peacekeeper." That girl will do anything to survive, probably tried to escape.

"You stabbed a Peacekeeper," the voice confirms, clearly unimpressed. "We have been kind to you. Saved you from the arena. You rewarded us by being ungrateful. And you know we don't condone violence here, Ms. St. Johns."

They don't condone violence, but they're electrocuting a girl on national television for the same old reason as always. Blood must have blood. Some of it they want to be Clarke's. The victor glances back over at Murphy, but his face is unreadable, hands limp at his sides. She wants to go over there, but isn't sure what to do, how to comfort him. When she saw Bellamy, all she wanted to do was watch his face forever. But it hadn't been like this, hadn't been literal torture.

Emori laughs, actually cackles, and then it breaks off and her whole body tenses as the collar around her neck buzzes. It stops, for just a second, and then starts back up. She cries out in pain, actual tears rolling down her cheeks and she sobs, but when the electricity fades, the sobs turn back into shakey laughter, body hunched over as far as it can be with her arms tied to the chair. "I never asked to be saved."

Another shock is released and her body convulses, shaking heavily, only the whites of her eyes showing. Some blood drips down the side of her mouth, eyes dazed and it looks like she has difficulty keeping her head up. Her voice drawls, slurs. "End it already." Her eyebrows are a hard arch, and her body shakes from a silent sob. "I want to go to John. Please."

She thinks he's dead. It's why she's no longer fighting, no longer trying to survive. Why the girl who cut off her own hand to live, is ready to give up. Clarke watches Murphy, the way the realization sets in on his face, the wetness of his cheeks, the utter and complete helplessness he must feel.

"How many days, Ms. St. John?"

She leans her head back against the chair, and the blood drips down her chin and onto her white tank top. " _Three._ "

"Until what?"

He shocks her again when she doesn't respond, her eyes shut, but Emori barely reacts this time, like her body has nothing left inside, like her muscles can't contract any more. Her chin dips to her chest, head rolling from side to side, the corners of her lips turns up the slightest of slight. Clarke has to try hard to understand, but when she does, fright immediately settles in. "Until I'm free."

The screen cuts to black and Clarke stares at it, almost dizzy. It's not long before noise shows on the screen and then Wallace appears in his office, as serene as ever, with a final message. "We, here at Polis, have always been fair and just. Thus, we will be offering your Mockingjay a chance to save her life."

If Clarke turns herself in, they won't execute Emori for her crimes against the capital. He's turning everyone against her. She'll seem selfish if she doesn't go, a traitor to those who stood by her, but if she does go, she'll be dead within a minute and the others still won't be safe. She'll show the general public she's not that different from Wallace after all, valuing her life above Emori's, like the capital has done for more than three quarters of a century.

Shaw lifts her out of her chair at one point, and she vaguely registers Wells' asking where he's taking her, but she can't look away, can't stop looking over at her shoulder at Murphy, who's looking right back at her, eyes narrowed darkly. Not even when the doors fall shut behind them and Shaw's grip on her arm loosens.

She already knows where he's taking her before they even turn the corner. "Maybe—maybe we can make a deal. M-my life for theirs," Clarke offers, still dazed, mind racing with possibilities. There has to be a way. A way to save her. All of them. Stop this.

Kane sounds resigned. "You really think they're just going to let her walk out of there?"

Clarke doesn't look at him, focuses her gaze onto Diyoza as she pushes her hair back from her face. She has to be the one to agree. "One, one life for three. That's, that's fair, right? Just?" Nobody says anything, a heavy and tense silence hanging between all of them. "If we get, we get Bellamy—he can be the Mockingjay."

"I can't let you do that, Ms. Griffin," she finally speaks, calm and collected, rising from the chair behind her desk. Clarke stops dead in her tracks, head empty safe from the president's voice and the sound of her own, heavy breathing. "I think you know that. I think you also know that if we give in now, it won't just be you that's dead, probably the other victors too, it will mean thousands more in the districts as well. Innocent deaths." That's what Luna said. "The Games won't ever stop. The revolution will." Diyoza offers her a close lipped smile. "Your life, as the Mockingjay, holds more value."

Clarke doesn't believe that. She can't. But deep down, she knows Diyoza's right about everything else. Walking in there, it would guarantee nothing, nothing but them losing this war. He would still kill Emori, kill the others, too. She might be right, but it doesn't mean she has to like this.

"She'll die right there if I don't do this," Clarke counters, but she knows she's grasping onto straws, pretending like Emori would still have a fighting chance. She wouldn't put it above Wallace to torture and execute all three of them and make her watch.

"She'll die if you do," Diyoza says, and to her credit, she does manage to look somewhat sympathetic. "I don't know Ms. St. Johns, but she's a sacrifice we have to make. We will honor her accordingly."

Accordingly. Like this was a sacrifice Emori was _choosing_ to make. Clarke feels sick, sick to her stomach, she never wanted this. Never wanted more blood on her hands. Does she have a choice?

/.\

She doesn't know why, but when the deadline is closing in, she has to see him. Has to—she doesn't know what. Apologize? For sentencing his girlfriend to death? She's not—she doesn't know how to justify herself, just that this has to be done. For all of them.

After the message was broadcast, Murphy was arrested for stealing a gun and trying to shoot a guard with it when he wouldn't let him into Diyoza's office. Shaw brings her to his holding cell when she asks him to, and it's a bright, white room, more like an interrogation room than anything. He makes sure Murphy is still cuffed to the table before leaving them alone for a moment, informing her he'll be right outside.

"Just hear me out," he says, eyes red, hair greasy and falling into his eyes when he lifts his head off his hands to find her. He looks like he's been awake ever since they watched the broadcast. He pleads, and pleads, hands pressed together, "Clarke, please just look at me." She forces herself to look away from his hands, take her own out of her pocket and off her shell, meet his gaze. "You have to do this. You _have_ to do this."

She steps closer, wanting to offer him some comfort, but not knowing how. Her mouth opens but then she closes it. Her hand lingers in the air, then it drops, defeated. Finally, she settles on, "I wish I could, Murphy."

He huffs, sitting back into his seat, eyes narrowed into dark sliths. His cuffs slide over the table loudly with every move of his hands. "Who the hell do you think you are, huh?"

That's not something she knows anymore. Who she is. It's not just that Diyoza wouldn't let her. It's also that Clarke believes this is the right thing to do. Not for Emori, not for Murphy, but for all of them. She has to bear that, bear that she would trade one life for thousands, that's on her. That's who she has to be. "I'm trying to save us."

"Save us?" He snorts, actually snorts, derisive, as he shakes his head lightly to himself. "Right, the Mockingjay. Saviour of us all." He yanks on his cuffs, like he's trying to get them loose and when he stands, his chair clatters to the floor loudly, making Clarke wince. That, or his words. His voice booms louder with each skeptical word. "Maybe you're forgetting that the last time you saved us, I was saving _you_!"

"I'm not forgetting," she responds, letting out a breathy noise as she bites back tears, jaw clenched. He jumped in front of her, right before lightning struck. The boy who would do anything to survive—he saved _her_ , because he chose the rebellion over his own life, because he believed that was what right. She hopes he can do that again.

"If you haven't forgotten then you have to do this," he counters, rightfully so. Then his face softens, and Clarke's eyes linger on his hands again, wrists red and raw and bloody, as he holds them up as if he wants to reach out to her, shake her. "Please, you need to this."

She remains quiet, not sure what there's left to say. They both know there's no other option. No other option but for her to stay here. His breathing turns erratic, and he's yanking on the cuffs again, trying to get closer to her, trying to kick the table aside, but he can't. He's getting desperate now, and Clarke can't do anything but stand there and take it. "Too bad you aren't really in charge here. Imagine how many people you could leave behind to die to save your own ass then." He yells and she flinches at the tone of his voice, teeth gritted together. "Tell me. After you leave her there, after you _murder_ her—who's next? Me? _Bellamy_?"

Her eyes snap up to his, already sharp on her face. Bellamy. Would she still feel the same way? She can't say that for sure. Maybe she's a hypocrite, maybe she should just turn herself in, save Emori no matter what it meant. She still can't get her mouth to move. "Okay," he reasons, shaking his head slightly, eyes raking her face as if to come up with a new plan to get her to agree, like there's still a chance she might. "I'm begging you, please. I _love_ her. Do this."

"Emori, she'll…" Clarke starts, but what is she supposed to say? That she'll be fine? She can't promise that. She can just watch something cold and hard wash over his face as he straightens his posture, hands limp in front of him as tears trail down his cheeks. "Hey. Look at me."

She does, another face to add to the long list of faces that haunt her in her dreams, another face broken beyond repair. "If she dies, _you_ die."

Shaw pulls her out of the room, tries to start up small-talk on the way back to her own but it's a one-sided conversation. She feels like there's been an extra layer of dirt covering her skin ever since their conversation. She can't help but think, think that if it was Bellamy they were threatening to kill, she might already be in Polis. Can't help but blame herself for all of this. She might have started a revolution, but she also started this. Alliances. People they could hurt to hurt her.

She stands under the cold spray of water in her bathroom and scrubs and scrubs and scrubs until her skin is red and raw, and it still doesn't feel like enough. She stands in front of the mirror for a long time, stares at the scars and the tears dripping down her chin. She doesn't know what time it is, but she knows the deadline is close, too close. She doesn't recognize who she is. The old Clarke would have never prioritized her own life above someone else's. She knows she's not being fair to herself, because it's not just Emori, it's everyone in the districts. She knows that, and yet… Yet, she hates herself more than ever before.

She stares at the the wet, messy braid she haphazardly threw together out of habit and has to steady herself on the sink as her body erupts into violent sobs. _Bellamy_. He would always tug on it, playfully or fond or for reassurance, reassurance she was still the person she always was, the person he could trust. He always wanted her to be better, do better. Would he still be able to look at her after this? Would she ever see him again? She's holding the scissors in her shaking fingers before she knows it, and for the first time, lets herself grief the person she used to be.

/.\

"Remember. _This_ is how far your Mockingjay will go. She will betray her own friends if it benefits her, and only her," Wallace introduces the broadcast, sour look on his face, like he's actually regretful about this. Like he would actually mourn Emori after… After she's gone. "She's given us no other choice."

"You don't have to watch this," Wells tells her, already tugging on her hand as Raven comes up on her other side while the mesh hall fills up. They're both out of breath, like someone warned them she was here. People in district thirteen understand her, are on her side, but they still look at her, look at her like—like they can't believe she actually went through with something like this.

"I do," she states, as Emori appears on the screen, remaining stiff under Wells' touch, frozen to the ground. Emori's in the same chair, wearing the same blood- and sweat-stained white clothes as before. She looks barely conscious, drifting in and out of it.

"Come on, Clarke. Let's just leave," Raven offers, this time, softer than usual, but the blonde just shakes her head. No. She did this. She has to face the consequences of that.

She's still wearing the collar, and her body convulses as it starts buzzing. Clarke still hopes something will happen, that he'll stop and show mercy or someone will come in and stop them, or, or _anything_. The buzzing turns louder and louder until it's all they hear, even louder than the screams coming from Emori, the flesh of her neck burning under the electric current. Clarke cries silently as she watches more blood drip down Emori's chin, trickle out of her ears, fall from her eyes and trail down her cheeks like they're tears. How's this different? How is this different from watching and accepting children kill each other in an arena?

Her body stills, no signs of fight left anymore, and the buzzing stops. The screen cracks, as a chair collides with it, a guttural scream echoing through the mesh hall. "Murphy," Clarke breathes, throat dry, quickly reaching up to wipe at the wetness on her face and Wells hand tightens around her own. Two guards have him by the arms. Raven's narrowed eyes dart over to her best friend's, in a not-so-hushed whisper, she questions, "Who the hell let him out?"

Her breathing stutters in the back of her throat as he informs her, calmly, even though he's still struggling against the guards, "I thought saving you would be a survivor's move, that in the end, I would be better because of it." He wipes at his cheeks, roughly, his wrists are still bound together with cuffs. "But it cost me _everything_."

It's clear he thinks he should've let her die, that night, in the arena.

"I'm sorry, Murphy, I am," she forces herself, forces her voice to be steady, forces herself not to choke on the tears, because that's the truth. She wishes—she wishes so many things. But she never wished for this. She steps closer to him, despite everyone around her thinking she's crazy for it. "I don't know what to tell you. There was no other way."

"You got it all wrong, _Clarke_ ," he hisses, and the corners of his lips are turned up in a smirk, eyes cold. He barely tries to escape the hold of one of the guards anymore, like he's sure he'll get his chance. "I don't want you to say anything. I want you to feel what I feel, and then… I want you to _die_."

"Get him out of here," Raven commands, sharp, stepping in front of Clarke as her entire body starts shaking against her will. She tried to be strong. She tried to. Wells' arms wrap around her frame and she blacks out for the rest of it, only remembers waking up in her bed, jolting awake from another haunted dream.

The deaths don't stop after that.

Dante rounds up each and every victor that's left, goes door to door in every district. Executes one every day Clarke doesn't turn herself in, justifies himself by saying no victor could be trusted. That one of them confessed they were all in on this, all working together with the rebels. Bellamy? Emori? Echo? _A victor's purge_. Kills their families, too, says their lies of omission were crimes towards Polis as well. _Do you see how far your Mockingjay will go?_ Becca Amaryllis, from district seven is the first. _How many lives she will waste for an useless cause?_ Roan Borealis, Azgeda. His wife, his mother. _How many more people will she sacrifice?_ Tor Lemkin, from Podakru, and his eight year old daughter Reese. _When will she give in?_ Kyle Wick and his little brother, Boudalan. Paxton McCreary, Louwoda Kliron. _What are the rebels doing to her to make her this heartless?_ Clarke stops showing up to the daily viewings after the eighth day. _Is this your hero, this commander of death, who chooses who lives and who dies?_

"We have to make a move. We're losing credibility. Sitting back, doing nothing," Kane reasons, pensive, during one of their many meetings, leaning back against the table.

"Your propos aren't doing their job, that's painstakingly clear." Diyoza shakes her head, dismissive. Wallace had countered with propos of his own, started a smear campaign on his own, showing old footage of Clarke killing people, in the Games, districts falling apart and burning to the ground, calling her the commander of death, with the Mockingjay symbol flashing across the screen afterwards each time. "Polis' hold on the districts is still too big."

Clarke sits their quietly, lets them argue as she picks at the loose skin around her fingernails until the flesh stings and bleeds. She's nothing more than an extension of them, a puppet, something she swore she would never become again.

"DePalma is not much more than a drunk, but she was right. Her influence is the biggest when she improvises." The way he talks about Anya doesn't give her much hope for how they speak about her behind her back. Not that she cares much. "The opportunities for spontaneity are obviously lacking below ground."

Diyoza cocks an eyebrow. "You're suggesting we toss her into combat?" She crosses her legs, searches his face for any facetiousness. "I can't sanction putting a _barely_ trained civilian in battle for the dramatic effect. We're not Polis."

Kane doesn't budge. "That is exactly what I'm suggesting. Put her in the field."

She taps a finger on top of the table, like she's considering it. "We can't protect her."

Marcus goes off into a rant that Clarke guesses sure is convincing. She's what people respond to, the symbol, and she can't be coached into it. He suggests a low-level warzone, something less dangerous. Diyoza hasn't spared her a single glance, but she tilts her head slightly, like her resolve is faltering.

Shaw clears his throat, and Clarke hadn't even noticed he hadn't assumed his regular post outside the door after dropping her off. "District three. There've been reports of heavy bombing last weeks, but at this point there's no military targets left." Her head snaps towards him and he shuffles his feet a little, one corner of his mouth lifted up slightly, arms behind his back. "Ma'am."

Kane gives her a pointed look and Clarke sits up. This, this could be a chance to actually make a difference. Not pretend like she was. Diyoza sighs, rubbing her temples. She worries her bottom lip for a second, eyes raking her desk like it holds an answer. Then her eyes flick back up. "We can't guarantee her safety."

"You'll never be able to guarantee my safety," Clarke cuts in, pressing, "I want to go."

Diyoza finally meets her gaze, challenging. "And if you're killed?"

If she's killed… Well. It's a risk she's willing to take. She's going stir-crazy here, holed up, in the dark, no news from Polis, sitting on her hands. "Make sure you get it on camera."

/.\

"I know they wanted you to have a weapon for the sake of the propos," Raven tells her, hair pulled back in her signature sleek ponytail, shoving something into her hands. "And because I'm me, I couldn't just make you a fashion accessory."

"Raven," Clarke starts, eyes focused on the bow in her hands. It's beautiful, hand-crafted. A little piece of Bellamy she can carry with her in the field, since this was always his thing. Her mind lingers on one of the many afternoons they spent in the woods, sun hot on their skin as he taught her the ropes, firm hand pressed in between her shoulder blades. _Ready to be a badass, Clarke_ , he'd asked her the first time. She gets a feeling Raven knew as much. "I'm so happy you're here, you know that, right?"

One of her perfect brows arches, and she hides a smirk. "Of course you are. I'm awesome." She limps over to a nearby table, takes some arrows of it and shows them to her. "In fact, I'm _so_ awesome, I made you an entire arsenal of arrows."

The arrows have different colored endings. Blue, yellow, red. Regular, incendiary, explosive. Raven explains, proud smile on her face. She's in her element, Clarke can tell as much.

"You can tell Luna I made her a special Raven edition axe, too, if she wants."

"Luna?" Clarke wonders, surprised, fingering the different arrows. It's been a while. She draws one, aims at a target in the distance. Raven hurries over, lowers her bow with both of her hands, gingerly. "Let's not play with the red ones inside, okay? They're the explosive ones."

"So?" It was just a little target practice.

Raven deadpans, "It _explodes._ "

When Clarke nods, putting the arrows away, the bronze skinned girl lets out a sigh of relief, rubbing her forehead. "Luna is part of your field team. She's been out there before. Thought they would've told you." At least it's someone she knows.

"It's kind of crazy, huh?" Raven says, when Clarke doesn't say anything and the silence drags on between them. "They had all of this and they just left us to fend for ourselves."

Clarke exhales loudly, looking around the room, observing their weapons, armor and vast supply of munition. "Yeah." They claimed they barely survived down here, that they wouldn't have been able to launch any attacks, or counter-attacks. That Polis would've retaliated with twice the firepower and annihilated district thirteen, like they're doing to the rest of the country. But this, Mount Weather, is a bunker. Bunkers are build to survive bombs.

"Looks like choosing who lives and dies is their speciality, too," she mumbles, more to herself probably, disassembling a fire-weapon on the table on front of her skillfully.

Clarke knows she has to be in training within five minutes, but something gnaws at her. Something she can't quite explain. _Their speciality,_ too. Rationally speaking, Clarke knew she meant Polis, but still. Maybe she meant her as well. Started to believe their words about the Mockingjay, too ."You know I would've never picked myself over her, right?"

Her hands freeze, and she considers her next words carefully. "If you're asking me if I know you were saving our people and not your own ass, yes." She wipes her grease-stained fingers on her leg, lifting a shoulder indifferently. "Just know there will be people that won't feel the same."

Clarke nods, after a moment, blinking profusely, trying to keep the tears at bay. She knows that, she's known that. She's just so afraid that—that the one person she _needs_ to understand, needs to forgive her, won't. "I'm sorry," she croaks, when Raven's small arms wrap around her frame tentatively, cheek resting against her hair. "I didn't meant to cry."

Raven pulls back to look at her, and Clarke reaches up to wipe a stray tear away with her knuckle. She lets out a shaky breath, mustering together a weak smile. "I just—it was always easier, with him, by my side, you know? I just…" They always said they would do it together, the head and the heart. It's really hard to function when half of her is broken, gone, incomplete. "I miss him."

Raven squeezes her upper arms, assuringly, brown eyes softer than she's ever seen them. She really has no business discussing this with the girl whose boyfriend she murdered, but Raven doesn't seem to mind. "We'll get him back."

Clarke nods, and she wants to believe that, has to. She sniffs, wiping a tear from her nose with the sleeve of her jumpsuit. "I'm sorry for being such a mess."

Raven raises her eyebrows, cynical. "Hey. Nothing like a little pain to remind you you're alive, right?"

/.\

Harper is sweet, sits besides her in the hovercraft and talks her through the propo they're going to try and shoot to keep her mind of the fact she's back into a similar aircraft that took her to the arena. Clarke would have thanked her, but she's too on edge, too afraid for what's to come, emotions still strung high from the dream that woke her up less than an hour ago.

She'd opened her eyes to find herself back in his room, something warm pressed against her back and splayed across her abdomen. She had to blink at the bright sunlight for a few moments, after having been locked up under the ground for so long. Then, she shifted her head to find a big olive-skinned hand on top of her belly and her heart had started to pound loud in her ears, pulse rattling in her throat.

Slowly, she turned her head on her pillow, only for her gaze to meet a familiar messy mop of curls, freckled face, broad shoulders, pressed to her back. His eyes were closed, still fast asleep, which was rare by the usual times she woke up. She placed her hand over his, just to check if it felt real, too, then picked it up so she could turn around and press her cheek against his chest to feel the steady thumps of his heartbeat. Those beats she could still hear if she closed her eyes and tried hard enough.

"You're awake early, princess," he mumbled, groggy with sleep, pressing a kiss to the crown of her head and tightening his arms around her, pulling her closer even if that was hardly possible. He pulled back slightly to peek at her through one eye, when she didn't respond. He smoothed some hair back from her face. "You okay?"

"Yeah," she smiled, pressing her lips over his heart, before resting her cheek there again and closing her eyes. "I'm just happy."

"Clarke," he said, but then her shoulder moved, like someone was pushing her. He repeated her name, but it didn't sound like him. It was Wells. Out in the real world. It hadn't been a nightmare, or a memory, but something that could have been, a dream, and somehow, that was worse.

Even now, her skin still prickled uncomfortably, and she was sweating for no reason, short strands sticking to the back of her neck. They all must assume it was because of the same reason Harper had, and she wasn't going to be the one to change their minds about it. Happiness, when was the last time she'd been able to say that she was happy? It wasn't a priority. They had to get through this first.

"We gotta be fast, in and out," Shaw reminds them when the hovercraft lands on the ground, accompanying her and the camera crew alongside Wells, who'd been training for a while now. Luna's not there, so maybe Raven was wrong after all.

District three isn't much different from district twelve. Most of it is rubble, just a few buildings left standing. A dark woman comes to meet them, eyeing Clarke warily. "You're alive. We weren't sure."

"Clarke, this is Commander Baum, district three," Shaw informs her, coming up beside her. Then, like he's reading it out of a script, he explains, "Clarke has been recovering but she insisted on coming and seeing some of your wounded."

"We have plenty of those," Commander Baum confirms, leading them through the debris. "And I prefer Indra." On the way to the field hospital, she explains the bombs, their unpreparedness, the mass grave a few blocks away until they stop in front of a curtain, haphazardly hung up with rusty nails to cover the entrance of a building. "Any hope you can give them, it's worth it."

Shaw ducks under it first, the camera crew next. She wants to follow them, but Indra takes her by the arm. "Hey," Wells starts, but Clarke brushes him off. It's not like Indra will kill the Mockingjay in broad daylight when they're both on the same side. "It's okay. I'll be inside in a minute."

He nods, wary, but steps inside anyway. Indra lets out a heavy sigh, adjusting her rifle on her shoulder. "I wanted to thank you."

"Thank me?" She's never met this woman, barely even been here for five minutes. Besides, Indra is the one actually fighting, actually making a difference. Clarke can hardly say the same.

"For Gaia," she elaborates simply, giving her a small nod. Right. This was her district. "She was my daughter. After her first—" She shakes her head lightly, breaking herself off. "She was never the same. But you never treated her any different, so I thank you for that."

"I'm so sorry," Clarke starts, pained, wrapping her arms around herself like that might make it hurt a little less. Gaia was kind, caring. She didn't deserve to die like she did. She can't imagine what it's like, having to lose a child, not once, but twice. "I wish I could saved her."

Indra nods, brief, then her expression hardens. "We're at war, and a warrior does not mourn those she's lost till after the battle is won." It's a bandaid on a bullet hole, just postponing the inevitable, but Clarke gets it. She hasn't let herself mourn a lot of people either, just in case the pain becomes too overwhelming. It's not something she can afford right now.

They go inside, the rest of them waiting patiently in front of the next curtain. Wells looks relieved to see she's okay. She offers him a reassuring smile.

"Polis has done everything they can to break us," Indra tells them, hand lingering on the second curtain, like she just wants them to have another second.

"Aren't you worried, having all your wounded in one place?" Wells' inquires, looking around the passage-way they're in. There's some blood on the walls and the concrete floor, and the smells not so great. It's probably where they keep their dead, before moving them to the grave.

"I think it's better than leaving them out there to die," Indra counters, unbothered. "If you have any other options, I'm all ears." Then, she pulls back the sheet, revealing dozens and dozens of wounded and sick, on top of makeshift cotts or just on the cold ground. There's clearly not nearly enough healers for all of them. _Any hope_. How is she supposed to give them hope? How is she supposed to give them anything? She's barely holding on herself.

She grabs Harper's wrist, pleads, "Don't film me in there. I can't help them." The director unwraps her fingers from her wrist carefully, squeezing them softly. "Just let them see your face, Clarke. That's enough. Show them you care."

She nods, gulping down a deep breath before passing the curtain. Her eye falls on a little boy, coughing until blood starts dripping down the corners of his mouth, her heart wrenching in her chest. _He's just a boy._ She kneels down beside him, pats his back until he's calmed down enough. "Just breathe. It's alright."

Finally, after a few moments, his breathing steadies and she helps him lay back down, propping him up a little so it'll be easier to breathe, taking a cold washcloth out of a bucket next to his cott and pressing it to his forehead. She offers him a weak smile, that she hopes is comforting enough, "Hey. You're okay."

He returns the smile, barely, but it's there, and his eyes close, his body tired. He probably won't have much longer. The ragged, audible, irregular breaths, the cyanosis around his lips, the vague blackness around his nose. He probably inhaled smoke, from the bombs. There's nothing they can do for him, not fast enough anyway. He's going to suffocate on his own blood, all because—all because of what? She pushes the damp hair away from his forehead, bites back the tears. _He's just a boy_.

"Clarke Griffin?" Someone says, after a while, and she turns her head. A lot of them are staring at her, ranging from confusion to awe to anger. She checks to see if the boy's still asleep, and when she's sure he is, she slowly rises to her feet, wiping her damp hands on the back of her thighs.

"What are you doing here?" The same woman, she assumes, asks, bandage wrapped around her head.

"I came to see you," she croaks out, and it's true. She wanted to see, for herself. The damage that had been done. Wanted to see what Wallace had done to his own people, her people.

"What about the baby?" She questions, bewildered, and Clarke's heartbeat picks up. _The baby_. Something that was supposed to be hers and Bellamy's, but was never real. It was never real, but it was still a part of him, a part of their story, and it was hard to leave that behind. Part of her didn't want to lie to this woman, to these people, but she knew she had to.

She still has to swallow down the tears, shaking her head lightly. All this pain, all this bloodshed, and they still care about how she's doing. It's too much. Has she done enough for them? Is she doing enough? "I lost it."

"Are you fighting, Clarke?" A man asks, sitting on top of one of the cotts. His arm in in a sling, his face bruised. "You here to fight with us?"

"I am," she confirms, because she is, even if she doesn't have much to show for it, "I will." She will. For them. This has to end. No matter what, no matter what the cost.

She doesn't know how long they stay there, talking to the wounded, helping the healers, listening to their stories and offering them any sort of comfort she can. At one point, Shaw tells her it's time to go, and it's not until they're halfway back to the hovercraft that she lets a tear fall. Wells' arm wraps around her shoulder, because he knows her too well, still does, "Your mom will be so proud of you, when she sees this footage."

Clarke shifts her head to look at him, but then Indra tells them to stop, holding up a hand as she fumbles with the radio on her hip. "There's a problem."

"What kind of problem?" Shaw inquires, pulling his rifle of his back. Indra motions for them to follow her, quick, "Incoming bombers from the north. We need to find cover!"

They must know she's here. They must want to try and kill her.

They take cover inside an abandoned building, wait for most of the planes to pass them. "This doesn't make sense, they're going south," Shaw hisses, poking his head around the wall he's hiding behind to observe the planes. Miller is crouched down beside him, and his forehead creases, "That's towards the hospital, right?"

"They're targeting the hospital," Indra confirms, crushed, as they watch a bomb drop from the distance, the explosion that follows deafening. That _boy_ , the other children, the women and men. Innocents.

"No, no, help them, get them out," Clarke yells, running back out onto the rubble. She's not there. She's here. She waves her hands over her head, until Wells tackles her to the ground, her palms scuffing on the debris. "Clarke, stop!"

"No," she cries out, trying to break free from his grip, watches them drop more bombs, some of them circling back around. There's just wounded people in there, children, _babies_. She's here, goddamnit. She's right here. She elbows Wells in the stomach, and he hisses out in pain, leaving enough room for her to escape.

She reaches for a red arrow blindly, aiming it up ahead as the planes cross them overhead. She fires it into the wing of one of the crafts, and it's engines start smoking, before it crashes into a building not too far for them. She's already drawing the next when Wells pulls her back into the building, assisted by Shaw this time. "Clarke, you can't just fire at random planes. You just alerted them of our presence!"

"I don't care," she snaps, pushing Shaw aside as she crouches down, trying to steady her breathing, covering her ears with her hands, stars blooming behind her eyelids. How many more people are going to have to die in her place? How many more?

Indra comes up with a plan for them to hide out until the aircrafts all leave, and leads them to safe location, Wells' arm clasped around her arm firmly the whole way there. She doesn't know how long it takes, waiting there, maybe minutes, hours, days, but when Indra leads them to the roof next, it's too late. She's always too late. The building the hospital was located in was blown to the ground, annihilated, just a big cloud of black smoke indicating what used to be there. There's no way anyone survived that.

She picks up the nearest thing she can see, which is an old 'keep out' sign and flings it over the edge of the building, chest heaving up and down harsh and uneven as she lets out a defeated, guttural scream, screaming into the void, screaming at nothing and no one. _There's no one left_. There can't be. She left them there, and now they're all dead. _Too bad you aren't really in charge here. Imagine how many people you could leave behind to die to save your own ass then._ She runs a trembling hand through her hair, flinching at the sting it causes on her scraped palms. She kicks at nothing, thrusting her bow on the ground and using her free hand to wipe at the tears that won't stop fucking falling. "Goddamnit!"

"Clarke," Harper urges, soft and careful, and the other blonde's head snaps towards her. To her surprise, they're all staring at her, Miller's camera pointed at her face. "Can you tell everyone what you're seeing?"

She inhales sharply, turning her back to them as she looks back at the building. All of them, they're gone. Harper keeps pushing, insistent, "Clarke, what do you wanna say?"

She turns back around, stares straight into the camera and for a second she thinks she might snap at them, for trying to film this, for trying to use this as propaganda. But it is what is and despite everything, she hasn't forgotten who the real enemy is. She clears her throat, brushes at her cheeks with her wrists roughly, steadies her voice. She doesn't want the message to be anything but clear.

"I want the rebels to know that I'm alive. That I'm in district three where the capital—" Her voice breaks and she has to clench her jaw and turn her face to keep from breaking out into another sob. She takes a deep breath, has to be strong. "Where the _capital_ just bombed a hospital. A hospital filled with unarmed men, women and children." She points behind her, at the dark cloud filling up the sky. The wind blows a few loose strands into her face, and she pushes them back, narrowing her eyes at the camera. "There will be _no_ survivors."

Wallace made sure of that. And she has to make sure that the people, her people, will fight back. Has to make sure his people realize what they're doing, that the cause they're fighting for is not noble or just, that the person they're fighting for would never fight for them.

"If you think for _one_ second that the capital will _ever_ treat us fairly, you are lying to yourselves," she assures them, briefly looking back over her shoulder to emphasize her next words, "Because we know who they are and what they _do_." She points back at the building, determined. "This is what they do!" She lowers her hand slowly, balling it into a fist, defiant, "And we must fight back."

She takes a second, to collect herself, gritting her teeth together. "I have a message for President Wallace." She steps off the ledge, closing the distance between her and Miller. "You can torture us," Emori, "and bomb us," all those innocent people, "and burn our districts to the ground," twelve is nothing but wasteland like so many of the others, like they're worth nothing, just collateral damage, "but do you see that?" She raises her eyebrows, the hint of a smile on her lips as she points back at the warzone behind her. He wanted the Mockingjay, the commander of death? He's got her. "You see that, Dante? Fire is catching."

She stops in front of Miller, channeling much of what she felt back in that arena. If they were going to hurt her, kill her, _burn her,_ she was going to do the same, going to do it twice as well. "And if we burn, you burn with us!"

/.\

Diyoza is ecstatic about the new footage and Raven and Sinclair finally manage to tag-team hack their way into the airwaves for nationwide broadcasting, increasing their own by a tenfold. Which means, that as soon as Polis starts their daily transmissions of the executions, forces everyone to watch them, they can hijack the broadcast and air their own home movies.

Except that day, they don't show an execution.

She's not very keen on watching herself give that speech, relive all of that again, so she arrives a little late to the mesh hall. She's barely pushed the door open, or she's frozen dead in her tracks. _Bellamy._

"...she was our favorite tribute, by far. I think that's what's particularly painful about this, don't you think, Mr. Blake? For you as well?"

He doesn't respond and Clarke's hand comes up to cover her mouth, fingers shaking. He's changed so much already. There's bags under his eyes, eyes bloodshot and wild, his hair plastered to his forehead. What are they doing to him? It's hard to watch someone who once gave her so many hope, maybe still does, look so hopeless.

"Clarke," he speaks finally, quiet and broken, and he even sounds different, forehead creasing. Her heart breaks at the sound of her name. He looks like everything takes a tremendous amount of strength, strength he doesn't have. "I forgive you, alright? I'll do that for you."

She closes her eyes, inhaling sharply as she grits her teeth together to keep from crying. Forgiveness was always hard for them, would always be hard for them. After the things they did, they way they thought about themselves, they way they would always blame themselves first. But she remembers that dark night, one of his worst nightmares, what she could do for him then, what he couldn't do for himself. What he is doing for her now.

"That's very honorable of you, Bellamy," Cage implies, off-screen and Clarke can't look away from him, no matter how much it hurts, no matter how badly she wanted to take his place, wishes it was her. "Such a sweet gesture for a girl who has inspired such violence. You must love her very much, to be able to forgive her like that."

It's easy to love someone _because_ , but to love someone _despite_ —despite their flaws and their mistakes and their worst terrors. That was rare, special. They could do that for each other, too.

Again, he remains mute, as Cage rambles on, "I don't think that I could, if I were in your shoes, of course. Unless," he exclaims, greedy almost, like he just realized something, but it sounds anything but spontaneous, "Unless you think that perhaps she's being _forced_ into saying things she doesn't even understand, Bellamy?"

"Yeah," he agrees, absently—and she used to be able to read him so easily, what he was thinking, how he was doing, and she doesn't know if it's just the screen or if something's changed, if maybe she doesn't know his as well anymore and it's _killing_ her—then lifts his head, "Yeah. That's exactly what I think. I think they're using her. I doubt she even knows what's happening, what's at stake."

"Now, Bellamy, I doubt the rebels will show her this, but just in case, what would you tell Clarke, if she were listening?" Eager, Cage pushes, "To Clarke Griffin, what would you say?"

"I think…" He breaks off, before dragging his eyes back up to the camera, clearing his throat. His eyes look empty, void of all the warmth that used to be inside of them, all the love for her they used to hold. "I would tell her to use her head." His eyes rake the camera, like he might find her looking back and agreeing. "Yes. Don't let them force you to play a role, Clarke. I know you never wanted this, never wanted a rebellion." Is he still trying to save her? In case they lose the war? "The things you did in the Games were never intended to start something like this. Don't let them change you into something you aren't." Does he still remember? That night before her first Games? _Who you are and who you need to be to survive are two very different things_. Maybe he's just trying to survive there, too. His brow creases, fingers curling into fists on top of his thighs. "Do you know what they really want? Can you trust the people you're working with?"

It cuts off, and they show her dumb speech, and all she wants in that moment is for her to have never recorded it. Later, they tell her it aired in every district, but not Polis. Sinclair designed the firewall himself, and he did it a little too well. Him and Raven have been trying to get in for days, barely coming up for air.

Wells storms after her, finds her in her room. She doesn't have to look to know it's him, back still turned to the door. She opens her mouth, closes it as she takes the shell out of her pocket, running her thumb over it's ribbed surface. _You and me_ , he told her, when he gave her this. Eventually, she settles on, "Did you see what he looks like?"

She turns to face him, when he remains quiet. He looks uncomfortable, uncertain. She's so tired of people looking at her like she might break. She's broken a million times over by now. There's nothing she can't handle. "I hate to play the devil's advocate here, Clarke, but—" He breaks off, swallowing thickly as he avoids her gaze.

"Just say it," she pushes, angry. It's easy to judge him like this. They don't know, haven't got a clue what they're doing to him there. Haven't got a clue what he would do for her, what she would do for him. "Say what you want to say."

"What he said just pushed the revolution back _again_. He knows… He knows he's supposed to be the father of your baby. If he can't trust you, if he doesn't believe in you, who will?" Wells shakes his head lightly, fixated on her hand, on what's inside of her palm. "If they tortured me, put a gun to my head, I would still—I would still try and do the right thing."

She doesn't doubt that. She doesn't doubt that for a second. She also doesn't doubt Bellamy isn't doing the exact same thing. Doing the right thing. For his sister. For her. What he _thinks_ is right.

"That's rich, coming from the son of the man who pulled a lever and killed two hundred innocent people," she counters, heated, even if she knows she is't being fair. They're not their parents. "He's the same guy who _volunteered_ for his sister, who was there for me after _every_ nightmare, who, who defended you to me, over and over again, just because he didn't want me to lose you, too."

"No, I don't think he is," Wells says, softer this time. "I think he's defending himself. Everyone has a choice, Clarke. Some harder than others, I know that, I'm not judging that. But how can he sit there, in Polis, and defend the people who destroyed his district? Tried to murder his family?"

He would _never_ do that. Never once has he ever put himself above anyone he cared about. He would protect Octavia, protect her with his life. She knows that. She knows that in her heart. Maybe, a part of her didn't want him to be honest, either. Wanted him to protect himself. If he would be honest—that would mean things would be worse for him, deadly, even. Wallace wouldn't have any use for him anymore, wouldn't be able to use him in _his_ propos.

"He doesn't know," she says, everything falling into place. If he knew, maybe that would give him some strength, some strength to fight back in his own way, some strength to hold out until he could see them again. "Nobody's seen what they did to twelve. We have to show them."

/.\

They'd gone to twelve with Diyoza's permission, who Clarke had seemed to win some trust from. Wells had shown them around, told them the events of the night of the Games, when everything had started, everything had ended. She didn't want to be back there, not really. She had already seen what Wallace did, what was left. It wasn't much. During lunch, they'd caught her humming the words to the song she sang to Finn, and Monroe quietly asked her if she could sing it for them. Reluctantly, she'd agreed, figuring there's no real harm there. _And will you take a life with me? A life with me?_ It's was an old song from a district that no longer existed, bringing up memories that felt like they were from a different lifetime _. We live as one. We live alone. I am your soldier. I will atone._ She's not a very good singer, but her father would always disagree, would have her sing the song for him while he worked on his blueprints, or made dinner, or sketched with her. _And will you take a life with me? This world will burn, save what you need._ It was strange how something so familiar, something she's sung so many times, could mean something so different now. _I am fearless, I am to fight, I am to die._ She doesn't feel as fearless, nowadays, not like she did then. _You're in my sight. And will you take a life with me? Blood must have blood. My body bleeds._

They'd used it for their their newest propo, used another part of her, but Kane had them change 'blood must have blood' to 'blood must not have blood', playing it over the footage of district twelve and three. It doesn't matter in the end, that another one of her tragedies is exploited for someone else's gain, it doesn't matter because it works and the districts start retaliating. It actually works. They're fighting back, attacking peacekeepers, taking back their buildings and food supplies, rioting, blowing up important Polis' properties. Anything and everything.

So it's not unexpected, when Wallace fights back as well. Moves and countermoves. At one point, she's called to the command center by Shaw, and for once, she's thankful she doesn't have to break down in the middle of the mesh hall.

She can feel Shaw's eyes boring in the side of her face as she blinks at the screen half the room is already staring at. It's _him_. She'd been prepared for his, prepared for the pain and the anguish and the self-hatred, but it still hits her like a punch in the gut, all at once. "Tonight, we've received reports of derailed trains, of granaries on fire, of a savage attack on the hydroelectric dam in district five."

What did they do to him? His voice shakes more and more with every word he says, no longer trying to hold back the tears brimming at his eyes as he speaks. "I'm begging you. Please show restraint and decency—" The screen transitions to her, of the footage they made of her in district three, which means Raven and Sinclair must have finally managed to break through the capital's firewalls. She hears Kane whisper about as much, shifting in his seat with nervous excitement.

Bellamy appears back on the screen, his face blank as a lone tear trails down his cheek. He blinks away more of them, sniffing quietly before he checks, stunned, "Clarke?"

"He sees it, he sees our propo," Diyoza declares, pressing her fist to her bottom lip, and biting down on the knuckle of her pointer finger, eyes fixated on the screen. They're watching this, the same thing as her, and they're elated. Are they not seeing what they've done to him? That they broke him?

"Clarke, is that you?" He repeats, shifting in his chair, like he can somehow get closer to her. His voice is rough, strangled. She's not sure she can handle more of this. More of him watching her play the Mockingjay, more him watching her be fine without him.

"Bellamy," she rasps, thick, pressing a hand to her chest instead of reaching out for him. This isn't her Bellamy. He looks so… Fearful. Despondent. Battered. But it _is_ still him. The mess of hair on top of his head. The scar above his lip. The specks of gold in his brown eyes. It's excruciating.

 _"If we burn, you burn with us!"_

"Clarke." For a second there's something there she recognizes, something to hold on to, his brows a hard arch and his hands stilling on top of his thighs, the only sound his voice and the loud rush of blood in her ears. It echoes, in her head, it echoes and echoes and she's not sure she can hear anything else ever again.

Someone off screen asks him to continue, snapping him out of it, reducing him back to nothing. No darkness, no light, just a void. "You were telling us about these savage attacks, remember?"

He fumbles with the collar of the crisp white shirt they put on him, but it doesn't budge. "Yeah." He sits back, but his whole body remains tense. "I was. The attack on the dam was a callous and inhuman act of destruction. Think about it. How will this end? What will be left? No one…" His tremulous voice breaks back off, another few seconds of her propo playing on the screen. When he's back, his eyes are squeezed shut. He starts talking again, like he can only remember what he's supposed to say if he doesn't look, doesn't think, focuses on the darkness beneath his eyelids. "No one… No one is safe. No one.." His eyes spring open, brown eyes fixated on the screen. He inhales sharply, something defiant settling over his eyes all at once. "They're coming, Clarke. They're going to kill everyone. And in district thirteen you'll be dead by morning—" The screen cuts to black, but not before the image of the mockingjay flashes across it one more time.

"He's warning us," Kane says, a question mark in his voice, then he decides, "That was a warning." Her head spins, and spins, legs like lead. _They're coming, Clarke_. What did he do? Why did he do that?

"Yes, it was," Diyoza confirms, already throwing around commands at her people. Clarke feels dizzy, light headed, like the blood flow to her brain was cut off. Like her head doesn't work anymore, like her heart's trying to take over by force. He just risked everything. Did the one thing he promised not to do. He promised to make it out. It didn't matter if that was an arena or Polis. He was supposed to make it out. Out of all the things she did, all the things she said, she thought she'd made that clear.

"We have to get him out," she whispers, once she can get her mouth to move, her voice unfamiliar to her own ears, the room around her going crazy. Looking at their radars, satellites, speculating about how he could've heard, could've known. Strategizing a way to call them off, a way to fight back. Starting a drill, loud sirens booming through the bunker, making it even harder to think.

 _Please, remain calm and begin evacuation protocol. Proceed to your nearest stairwell and descent to level 40._

They're not listening. They don't understand. She slams her hands on top of the table, demanding their attention. "We have to get him out, before they—before they kill him." It feels like forever that Diyoza stares her down, which in reality can't be more than a few seconds.

 _Blast doors will be sealed in six minutes. This is a code red alert._

The president turns to Shaw, who's already typing away on one of their computers furiously. "How much time do we have?"

"Three Polis squadrons just entered our airspace. They're a few seconds from range."

"Diyoza," she demands, again. She refuses to be invisible, not now, not after they made her be visible so many times, when all she wanted was to disappear. She needs her word on this. The other woman barely glances over at her, presses, "Shaw?"

"They hit the far edge of the northwest quadrant," he explains, glimpsing back at his computer. "Penetrated 40 feet. Only minor damage, ma'am."

"Radiation?"

"Uhm," he types and types, every tick of his fingers like a tiny explosion to Clarke, then, "None detected."

 _Please remain calm and begin evacuation protocol. Proceed in orderly fashion to your nearest stairwell. Four minutes until the blast doors close._

He'd want her to check on Octavia, he'd want her to be safe. But, Clarke, she can't move, can't do that for him unless she knows, she knows he's going to be safe, too. That he wasn't going to die trying to save them when they hadn't even tried to do the same for them.

"Diyoza," Clarke orders, requests, begs—she's not sure anymore. The president holds up a hand, pensive look on her face as she studies the computer, over Shaw's shoulder. "Everyone, cease fire. Stand down. They're only bombing where _we_ revealed ourselves. They don't know what we have or where we have it." She straightens her posture, makes sure to look at each and every person in the room so they understand. "I'd like to keep it that way. Make sure everyone gets down into the bunkers. We'll wait this out." She nods at her people confidently, arms crossed behind her back. "This is what we were built for."

Slowly, she turns to Clarke, her Mockingjay. "As for you—I suggest you get down to the basement before the blast doors close." The tension in her shoulders deflates a little, eyes softening just a bit. "I will not forget what he did for us tonight, I promise you that. We had eight extra minutes of civilian evacuation thanks to Bellamy."

Clarke clenches her jaw, _it will have to do_ , but doesn't say anything before she rushes down the stairs with two minutes to spare. Octavia. She has to make sure, for him, that she's safe. For when he comes back.

"Mom," she exhales, just inside the blast doors, hands on her shoulders, practically pulling her away from one of her patients she was trying to help on top of one of the bunkbeds. "Where is Octavia?"

She opens her mouth, looking over her shoulder and then Clarke's. Her brow furrows together. "I don't know. She was just behind me."

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Why couldn't she ever just listen? Why couldn't she just ever just do what she was told? Clarke steps back behind the blast doors, looks back up the stairs, one of the guards reminding her it closes in thirty seconds. She ignores him, taking a hold of the railing and look up the metal stairwell. "Octavia?"

"I'm here," she yells out suddenly, ten seconds to spare. That damn cat is perched under her arm as she almost trips into Clarke's embrace, the blond demanding they hold open the doors. They make it in just on time, slipping into the basement. Clarke leans back on one of the walls, out of breath. "You went back for the stupid cat?"

"I wasn't going to leave him behind," she narrows her eyes, brazen, that familiar sparkle of Blake defiance in her eyes. They're the same age, but she looks so much like a little girl, face clean, hair shiny and untangled, and shoulders not carrying the weight of the entire world. She wonders if she can ever look like that again, calm. Peaceful. "I'm not _you_ , Clarke."

"I know," Clarke says, resigned, pinching the bridge of her nose. She doesn't want to fight with her anymore. If she thinks she left him behind, if she has to think that to not give in to the pain of missing her brother, if she has to blame _her_ , Clarke can let her. "I know."

They walk further down the hallway, stopping in front of an empty bunk. Octavia sits down, cat on her lap. The mattress dips as Clarke tentatively sinks down beside her, flinching as there's another distant explosion making the walls shake, grain falling from the ceiling onto the floor.

"Everyone is counting on you, they're always counting on you," she mumbles, after the blasts die out, for now, staring down at Skye as she pets her, long brown hair falling down the shoulder the farthest away from Clarke. She was never the type to hide her emotions.

Yeah. They do. She's their symbol. Clarke doesn't say anything, lets her process her thoughts and feelings on her own for a few moments, only breaking her gaze on the side of her face to accept a blanket and a flashlight from one of the guards.

" _I_ counted on you," she clarifies, finally meeting her eyes. In some way, Octavia trusted her with her brother, but it isn't as black and white as she always made it out to be. Maybe she left him there, maybe she didn't, maybe she never had a choice. "But—I saw the way you looked, in the mesh hall, a few days back. When… When they interviewed my brother."

"I didn't see you," she replies, lame. Even if she hadn't been focused on him and him alone, making herself so upset she had to throw up in her room afterwards, she's not sure she would have even gone over to her. Seeing him in the way Octavia holds herself, her smile, her sharp cheekbones, her dark hair, that raging fire always bubbling under the surface—she's not sure she would've been able to take it.

Her jade eyes search Clarke's face, unashamed, then she swallows thickly. Almost involuntarily, she says, "I know you did your best."

Clarke's mind flashes back to a time when Octavia had called her best not good enough, when she'd hurt her brother by leaving him. It seemed good, that she didn't feel the same anymore, not this time. Even if she left him and hurt him this time, too.

"Yeah," she says, absently, reaching out to scratch Skye's furry skull. Octavia leans her head on her shoulder and they sit like that for a while. It's easy to pretend like this, like they're back in the Victor's Village, listening to Bellamy read the Iliad out loud to them, a sketchbook in her lap and the cat in Octavia's. The sun on their shoulders.

"I forgot to tell you," she announces after a while, nonchalant, like they never even stopped talking to each other. Beaming. It's as much of a compromise Octavia is going to give her. A new start for the two of them. An apology was never in the cards. "I got promoted at the hospital."

Clarke musters a smile, one of the first genuine ones in a while, albeit weak. Octavia could do anything she set her mind to, always a fast learner. She remembers the day she came home with a baby bird, his wing broken. It took weeks of dedication, but she nursed it back to health. "Your brother would be really proud of you."

She falls asleep on her shoulder at one point, and Clarke lies her down on the bed carefully, scurrying off the cat when she protests. She covers her with a blanket, brushing some of her hair back from her forehead pensively, when her eye catches Luna's. She strides over there, carefully. "Hey, can I sit?'

"Sure," she answers, corners of her lips turned up solemnly, scooching aside even though there's plenty of room beside her. Luna stuffs her hands into the pockets of her jumpsuit.

"Why didn't you come?" Clarke starts, after the silence becomes a little too much to bear. "To district three, I mean."

"I wasn't doing well. I have bad and good days like most of us," she discloses, voice a little tighter than usual but never wavering. It must be nice. To be able to believe everything happens for a reason, to still believe in something. "I couldn't go there and watch more people suffer. Seeing what they did to Emori, what they—" She cuts herself off, beautiful curls moving alongside her head as she shakes it.

Clarke trains her gaze on the wall in front of them, same as her. Sometimes Clarke doesn't even know why she keeps going, where she finds the strength to. Why she doesn't just put down her weapons and give in. She feels like she's just going through the motions, following orders and barely making a difference that's worth all of the pain. Finally, she builds up the courage to ask. "How do you live with it?"

"I drag myself out of nightmares and there's never any relief in waking up," Luna confesses, pulling a hand out of her pocket, flats her palm to reveal a necklace, pendant shaped like a sharp shark tooth, a crescent moon engraved into it. Her gaze lingers on it, something dark washing over her eyes, thick brows creasing together. The walls around them shake again, the blast of a remote explosion. "When Elio died in my arms, I knew I would never be the same. Someone who could do something like that, to her own brother, who reveled in the rage and the death and the violence, she didn't deserve to live."

She lifts her chin, closing her fingers back around the pendant as her eyes meet Clarke's, like she's looking straight into her soul, knows what she struggles with. "It's not something I can control, I can't control the past. I have to accept that." Control. Clarke's not sure she can let that go. It's part of why she feels so out of her element, why she feels like she can never quite catch up with everything. "But I _can_ control not giving in. It's better. Better not to give in to it. It takes ten times longer to put yourself back together than it does to fall apart." She sounds so calm, sure, almost melodic, other hand coming up to rest on Clarke's knee. "So trust me when I tell you, if _I_ found peace—you can."

/.\

Diyoza has her in front of a camera the next morning, outside, telling the world they survived an attack by the capital with no casualties, that they remain fully operational. Clarke can almost make herself repeat the words, too. If it weren't… If it weren't for—

"Clarke, it's ' _thirteen is alive and well and so am I',_ " Harper reminds her, patient, cameras pointed at her, when she remains frozen in her spot, staring at the ground. At the berries. Squashed under her boots. Everywhere. Thousands of them. "Clarke?"

Her hands start to shake, and she looks up at Harper, tries to gauge if she understands, if she understands that this—what it means… Instead, she smiles, encouraging, signaling for Miller to step closer. "Tell me about the berries, Clarke. Tell Wallace thirteen is alive and well."

It's nightlock. The berries, they're nightlock. They're nightlock and it's a message. A message for her. Her voice sounds distanced when she uses it, rough from disuse. "He's going to kill Bellamy."

"Let's try that again," Harper says, unaware that Clarke is unraveling right in front of her. "Monty step a little closer, I can barely hear her."

"He's going to kill Bellamy," she repeats, but maybe she's not really talking, maybe there's not actually sounds coming from her mouth. Sweat covers her skin. Her short strands of blonde hair stick to the back of her neck. She's outside, but she feels like she can't breathe, like the trees are closing in on her, like this is the end.

"Thirteen is alive and well and so am I," Harper prompts, again, looking at the rest of her crew helplessly. "Clarke?"

"I can't do this," she exclaims, and this time she's sure they hear her, because they're all looking at her like—like she's crazy. Maybe she is. Maybe she is when all it takes is some berries to set her off. But he's just going to keep—he's never going to stop. And if she had Bellamy, maybe that would be something she could bear, with him by her side, but not now, not like this, not when—

"Miller, cut the cameras," Harper instructs him, curt, stepping closer to the victor, sympathetic. "It's okay, Clarke."

"No," she counters, resolute. No, it's not. She's never going to be okay again. She doesn't know why she ever thought any different. "He warned me." _Every person in your life that you care about and that I have to get rid of to make you understand—that's all on you._ "He warned me about this. He's doing this because I'm the Mockingjay." She slides a hand into her hair, to push it back, presses it to her forehead and she feels like everything's spinning, spinning out of control. "He's punishing Bellamy to punish me."

Harper puts her hand on top of her shoulder but Clarke startles, jerks away at her touch. "No, I can't do this." She's done so much for them, brought him into so much danger and Wallace is still winning. She can't stand here, knowing—knowing what he's doing right now, who he's killing. Fighting for a lost cause. Fighting when she's already lost everything, is losing him. "Don't make me do this."

"Let her go," Kane says, taking mercy on her, but she's already storming back inside the elevator. He might already be dead. He might already be dead. Bellamy—

"So this is it? The end?" Wells finds her, because of course he does. He sinks down onto the ground, across from her. She doesn't know how long ago she went back inside, it could be hours, minutes. "You're going to hide down here in these vents forever?"

Not too long ago, she was here with Murphy. When he wished Emori dead. He hadn't meant it. He hadn't meant it and Clarke murdered her. Not with her own hands, but with her own words. There would always be blood on her hands, always one more name to add to the long list of casualties in a fight she isn't allowed to participate in. Always one more person she used to call a friend that wouldn't be able to look at her anymore.

"I can't be the Mockingjay." Not when everyone she cares about turns up dead. Not when she can't do what they're making her say. Have hope, fight back. "I can't do it anymore. I'm done."

"Well, Mockingjay or not, you're still my best friend," he reminds her, emphatically, leaning an elbow on top of his knee. "And the reason I'm here is to let you know they're rescuing them. They're rescuing Bellamy." If anything, she appreciates the fact Wells knows her well enough to not pretend she would be broken down over Echo, or any other victor for that matter, like this. Not like this.

"What?" She lifts her head, meets his eye, pushing herself up on her palms to sit up better, look at him better. A rescue mission? How would she—why… Why now?

He shifts, so he can lean forward, assure her with his hand on top of her foot. Hopeful, always hopeful. "The dam that went down in five, it took out most of the power to Polis. Knocked out the signal defences. Raven's in their system right now, wreaking havoc like only she knows how." Knowing her, she's enjoying it, too.

"How much longer?" She sniffs, already moving to get out of the vents. It's not much of a struggle to find the nearest exit. She's gotten pretty well acquainted with these secrets halls during her time here.

"I don't know," Wells pants, as he pushes himself out skillfully, wiping his hands on the back of his legs. He tilts his head towards a hallway, motioning for her to follow him as he continues his earlier train of thought. "Probably until the capital can get the power back on."

They turn the corner, and it's not hard to figure out where they're going. She wraps her arms around her waist as they walk, tries not to focus much on what it all means. Tries to focus on one detail at a time. She pinches both of her sides the entire walk there, making sure she's awake, that this isn't another cruel dream. "They know where he is?"

"Yeah. Tribute centre. One of Kane's spies tipped them off," he discloses, stopping in front of the door of the command centre. He stills, fingers wrapped around the door handle, tongue darting out to wet his lips as he searches her face. Finally, when Clarke is about to push the door open herself, he speaks. "Diyoza knows—she knows Bellamy is Polis' weapon, the same way you're ours. As opposed to having two pointing at each other, on different sides of this war, she's going to get them." Together.

The room buzzes with guards strategizing, consulting with Diyoza, yelling out updates to each other and new commands. Nobody really notices them come in, or particularly cares about the mental breakdown she just had. She spots Sinclair first, working furiously in the corner. They stand behind Raven, watch her type and click away on a computer, several different screens lodged in front of her. Still, she manages to inform them, "Luna's outside. Doing a propo." She grabs a hold of the desk and pushes herself off, so her chair slides over to the next row of computers, and she can start typing there.

"Why?" Clarke blurts out. It was bad enough they made her do it. Was it really necessary to bring Luna into this as well? Propos or no propos, the rebellion was well on its way.

"She has to keep talking," Wells says, already in on the plan, broad arms crossed over his chest. "Raven and Sinclair took over their system."

"Since they're down to generator power, there's a more limited range of frequencies available. We're filling them all up with Luna," she clarifies, matter-of-factly, all the while still fixated on the electronica in front of her. "Jamming their entire system with noise."

She nods her head to the side, and Clarke follows the line of motion to the big screen in the front of the command centre, watches her, her friend. "My name is Luna Murchadh. Victor of the 74th Hunger Games." Her jumpsuit is tied around her waist, white tank top covering her upper body. She looks up at the sky, corners of her lips turning up slightly as she closes her eyes, feeling the warm sun that's about to set on her face. The hint of a smile fades as fast as it appeared and she ducks her head to look at the camera. Her jaw flexes, just a third of a second. "But you know that already." She inhales, slow, and the necklace around her neck catches Clarke's eye as her chest expands. _Elio's_. "Thirteen is alive and well, as well as me. The truth is," Luna breaks off, and she stares at something beyond the camera, wistful.

"Early defense warning, internal communications, everything," Raven lists, long ponytail swaying over her shoulder as she pushes her chair back to her original spot. "As long as the broadcast goes through, the retraction team should be able to get in and out undetected."

Clarke looks back at the big screen as she hears Luna sighs. "—the _truth_ is... Not the myths about a life of luxury or the glory for your district." It's what they want you to believe. "You can survive the arena. That's what I did. Even when they send me in there with my brother. Then I found out the Games never stop. The moment you leave, you're a slave. They sell you, they sell your body." Clarke heart pangs at the admission. Not her, too. "If you're considered desirable, the president gives you as a reward or allows people to buy you. If you refuse, he kills someone you love." She grins, spiteful, but her eyes are glazed over with tears. "You see, after what I went through, I didn't have much fight left in me. So I accepted my fate. Waited to die. Hoped my release would come quick."

"We're inside Polis airspace," Diyoza's voice booms through the room, but Clarke can't tear her eyes off of Luna. Luna, who's _so_ strong. Who she hadn't seen break down like this since she heard her brother beg for her help in the arena, another cruel muttation from Wallace.

"To try and make me feel better, to fix me, my suitors would make me presents—money or jewellery." Her thumb comes up to wipe at the single tear that's threatening to fall from her eye. "But I found a more valuable form of payment. Secrets."

"Switching to night view," a voice crackles over the radio. "Command, we have visual on the tribute centre. Initiating final approach."

"I know about all the depravity, the deceit and cruelty of the Polis elite," she mentions, off-handedly. "But the biggest secrets are about our president. Dante Wallace."

"I'm losing them," Sinclair speaks, for the first time, the screen malfunctioning on Luna's face, last words sounding distorted. Clarke steps closer to her, as if she might be able to do something to stop it, to keep her live across the nation. "Their defense system is rebooting, coming back online."

"They must be diverting power from another source," Raven curses, and she and her mentor talk in more cryptic terms Clarke can't make sense off. Then, Sinclair informs Diyoza, "I'll try to filter the transmissions, but another sixty seconds and we'll be cut off."

"Should we call back the hovercraft?" Shaw prompts, and he means well, but Clarke can't have this. Heart hammering loud in her chest. She can't have this now that she's so close. "Madam?"

With her hands on the table, leaning forward, Diyoza looks from Sinclair to Luna and back to Shaw, contemplative, and she can't think about it. Can't think about them pulling back when they're so close. So close. Their only shot. If they don't make it now, they won't have to again, because he'll be dead. He'll be dead. She won't ever be able to hold him again, won't ever be able to listen to him telling her to be careful or praise her paintings like it's the best he's ever seen _every_ time or explaining constellations she'll never see, won't ever be able to look into his brown eyes and see all the love she doesn't deserve staring right back at her.

"Broadcast me." Her mouth moves before she can register it and Diyoza's face snaps to hers in quiet surprise, maybe a little impressed. Clarke's brain has always performed it's best under pressure. Steady, even, _rational_ , she explains. "If Wallace is watching this, maybe he'll let the signal in. If he sees me. Put me on air. So he sees me."

There's a beat of silence, then their president nods, resolute. "Put her on." She points at a guy who immediately hurries over to put some sound equipment on her, while Sinclair assures her, "He'll only see you." Not them, just her. She'll be their target, one more time.

"President Wallace, are you there?" She clears her throat. "It's Clarke."

Kane has his arms crossed over each other, standing beside Diyoza, thumb pressed to his bottom lip. "He might not even be watching," he reasons, "There's no guarantee."

There's no guarantee he isn't either. He could never resist an opportunity to taunt her, though. She fumbles with the microphone, loosens it around her neck. "President Wallace. I need to speak with you. Can you hear me?"

She repeats the question a few more times, and then, a condescending sneer on his face like always, "Miss Griffin, what an honour like always. I don't imagine you're calling me to thank me for the berries." She has to bite back a victorious grin, forces her face to be neutral.

She cocks an eyebrow, tries to rile him up like only she can. "You think you can shake my resolve? With a little nightlock? I was ready to sacrifice myself back then because it was me against Polis. Now I don't have to resort to doing the same. We have you outnumbered."

His stupid sneer never falters, horror settling in the low of her belly as she tries to swallow down the thickness in her throat. "Maybe so." His amused grin widens, pausing for just a beat. "But we'll _both_ take losses. Echo and Bellamy among them."

It's not so much of a warning as it is a fact. Even if they win this war, Bellamy is in Polis. He'll make sure to take Bellamy with him, if only so she can suffer a final time. If only to make a point.

He has her momentarily struck, knows just which buttons to push, but she pulls herself together, remembers she has to keep him talking. He doesn't know they're rescuing him, he doesn't know that. They have the upperhand. There's still a chance—a chance that what he's saying doesn't have to be true.

Her brow furrows together, as she racks her brain for something to say, something that might change his mind. Maybe she's speaking more to herself, her voice too quiet, too guilty. "I never asked for this, I never asked to be in the Games. I never asked to be the Mockingjay. I just wanted to save Bellamy. Keep him safe." It was all just a set of circumstances that led her to this point, led her to lead her people, led her away from Bellamy. All of a sudden, it's like she snaps, voice breaking, "Please just let him go. I'll do anything. I'll, I'll stop fighting. I will stop being the Mockingjay. I'll disappear. _Please_. I'll do anything."

"Miss Griffin." He tuts disapprovingly. "You couldn't run from this any more that you could have from the Games." Maybe that's true, maybe there's no going back. She doesn't want to go back, doesn't want anyone to ever have to go through what she went through again. That's her head. Her heart, however. Her heart—

"Please," she begs, quivering. Resigned. One hand comes up to tuck a loose strand behind her ear, and she takes a step forward, towards the camera, never once breaking her gaze on the screen. "You won. You beat me. Please just let him go. I'll turn myself in."

He doesn't look the slightest bit phased, actually looks disappointed she's not playing along with him, giving up on his games. "We're long past the opportunity for noble sacrifice, Miss Griffin."

Her nostrils flare, and her fingers curl into fists. If she's no longer enough, what is? If he wants control, she'll give him that, too. "Then tell me what to do. What you want."

"I know what you are. Who you are. We're not that different you and I," he counters, folding his hands atop his desk. "You think you're doing what's right for your people, same as me. Except I know you can't see past your narrowest concerns." Bellamy—he might be, a narrow concern, to him. Not to her. "I doubt you know what honesty is anymore."

"You're the one who's always asked me to lie," she snaps, glancing over to Diyoza briefly and forcing herself to calm down. Forcing her voice to be even, but it comes out hoarse at best. "About Finn, why I did what I did. Then forced me to lie again, over and over. Pushed me into a corner. With those pictures of me and Bellamy? But I was always honest about my feelings about him, wasn't I?" That's why he's using him against her, isn't it? Because even if the baby was never real, and they never fell in love, she never lied about loving him, about him learning her to let someone back in. That he was special to her. "I never lied about that."

A slow grin spreads across his face, and even if they're winning, why does it feel like she just lost? Calm and composed, he replies, "Miss Griffin. It's the thing we love most that destroy us. I want you to remember I said that." She just blinks at him, blinks at the screen, waits for what she's sure to come, pulse rattling fast in her throat. "Don't you think I know you friends are in the tribute centre?" Before she can even register what he's saying, he turns his attention to someone off screen, coldly instructing them to, "Cut them off."

Then the screen goes black. She takes in a deep gulp of breath, steadies herself by grabbing a hold of the nearest object she sees, a desk—vision starting to blur. She knows what this means.

"What happened?" Wells wonders, and Raven confirms her worst fears, solemnly, "He knows they're there."

"It's a trap," she whispers, pressing a hand to her head. It's pounding, hurting, a headache coming up steadily. With her free hand she yanks the microphone away from her neck, like that might help her breathe. Wells strides over to her side quick, arm snaking around her back and helping her stand up straight.

"There's no signal, Clarke," she vaguely registers someone say, it's still Raven talking, she thinks, "We can't contact them."

"No," she grumbles, sharp, finding the strength somewhere inside to push Wells away from her. "He knew the whole time. Taunting me. He knew the whole fucking time." She lets out a sob, pressing her palms to her eyes, rasping, "Did I really lose him tonight? Did I lose him?"

"Clarke," Wells says, quiet, putting his hand on top of her arm. Tears spring from her eyes as she takes a hold of her friend's shirt, holds onto as to not break down completely, as to not let her knees give in completely. "I lost him."

"You don't know that, Clarke," he mutters, own eyes brimming with tears, seeing his best friend like this, other hand coming up to wrap around her other arm, trying to ground her. _This is district thirteen, Clarke, anything's possible,_ he told her once. Always trying to share his eternal optimism with her. It's not enough, not this time. "You don't know that."

Static crackles over the radio, everyone on edge, and then she hears it. "Madam president? We're back in the air. Returning to base as we speak. Both targets were acquired."

/.\

She yanks open the first closed curtain in the medbay, but it's not him. It's Echo. She's covered in small lacerations, eyes bloodshot, brown hair chopped uneven, some strands longer than others, in the middle of being restrained by one of the healers.

"If it isn't the woman of the hour," she bites, tearing her arm from the healer's grip and pulling out the IV-line he just put in. She must notice Clarke staring, because the corner of her lips turn up, spiteful, "Cute, huh? Death by a thousand cuts."

How do you talk to a girl you never once lost a wink of sleep over? Who was never the person you intended to save? Who was just collateral damage? She doesn't have to, because Raven pulls back the curtain, snarling, "She saved you."

Echo cackles, actually cackles. " _Saved_ me. The mighty Mockingjay. How lucky I am." Something dark and hard washes over her face, gaze insistent on Clarke. "There would have been nothing to save us from. If not for you."

Raven pulls Clarke out, without another word, closing the curtain behind her. Instead of a thank you—that girl is always saving her—she stammers, "What are you doing here?"

All the anger deflates, and now she's just frowning. "I don't get it." She exhales, sharp, shaking her head lightly. "Every gun was back online and pointed at our aircraft and they flew right past them, Clarke." There's that dimple again, right above her brow. Disbelievingly, she concludes, "They let them go."

Clarke searches her face, can't think straight enough right now, to connect the dots, what it all means. Abby comes up to her, breaking off her train of thought, squeezing her hand softly to get her attention. "He's in there. The gas they used on the guards knocked him out, too, but it's wearing off. You should be there, when he wakes up."

She gives her mother a quick hug, "Thanks mom," then sends Raven an apologetic glance. They'll talk later. She slides open the door to his room, and for a moment her heart stops beating. Is this real? Is he really there? She steps closer to the gurney in the middle of the room, gingerly. She swallows, thickly, hand hovering in the air.

"Bellamy?"

His eyes snap open, and it's really him. It's really him. "Bellamy," she breathes, letting the tears escape, as she leans down to embrace him, her whisper ghosting across his skin as she buries her face into his shoulder. "You're home."

"You're really here." His arms are warm and strong around her, but instead of pulling her in closer—she's knocked back, back of her head hitting the floor with a loud thud, vision blurring. She hisses in pain, and he's on top of her, hands around her neck, fingers digging into her skin. Hands she knows so well, hands she's sketched so many times. She tries to choke out his name, tries to feel around, for something, anything she can use against him. Maybe he hates her. Hates her for what she's done. To Emori. To everyone else. For leaving him there. Leaving him behind.

At first she feels panic, a lot of it, but then she's just calm, because this is Bellamy. It's her Bellamy. She circles his wrists with her hands, but it's no use, he's too strong. She stares up at him, at his bloodshot eyes, tries to get through to him one more time. When that doesn't work, she just settles on trying to memorize all the specks of gold inside of them one last time, struggling to get in any air at all. Maybe it's right like this. Maybe it's okay. She wants to tell him that, that it's okay. _It's okay_. She gives in, lets herself give in. _The people who love us hurt us the most_.

Her vision gradually turns black, stars blooming behind her lids, and he's crying, tears dropping onto her skin, he's crying, but he doesn't stop, not until, "Bellamy, get off her! Get off her!" and someone's pulling him back, Wells, and she can take her first breath of air in a full minute as his hands temporarily slip off her neck. Then he's back on top of her, Wells not strong enough on his own, he's that dedicated to wanting her to die, so Shaw has to come in as well, commanding, "Let go!"

They get him off her eventually, and she can breathe, but she takes no comfort in that. Not when he's kicking and screaming trying to get lose, trying to get to her, hurting himself so he can get to her. Trying to get to her so he can kill her, choke her until—he's hurt her the way she's hurt him.

More guards rush in to try and contain him, a healer charging ahead with a syringe. She lays there on the floor, arms limp at her sides, tears spilling from the corners of her eyes and trailing down her temples silently, dripping into her hair and onto the floor, stridor evident in every wheezing breath she takes in. She's lost him.

She got him back, but she's lost him.

/.\


	2. Chapter 2

She can't talk. Her neck is bruised and swollen, and if she were to use her voice it would most likely barely be a whisper. She can't talk and it's better that way, because they don't ask her if she's fine, or how she's doing, or what she feels. It's better, because she doesn't want to talk.

They talk _to_ her. Her mom comes in, tells her what happened. _We did some tests. It's called hijacking, honey. We don't know how long the capital's been doing this to Bellamy. It's fear conditioning. Enhanced with tracker jacker venom._ She pretends to be tired, heart hammering in her chest. Octavia comes to see her. _Tracker jacker venom_ , she says, sad, stroking back her hair from her face, _like in your first Games. Remember? You were stung. The venom causes you to dissociate._ Wells comes to see her with Raven—strong, brave, fearless Raven—who has to look away from Clarke. From the bruises, the hemorrhages in her eyes, the defeated look on her face. Shaw comes later, explains how it works. Maybe Wells couldn't find the strength, to beat her when she was already down. To add salt to a wound that already might never close. _They tortured him, shocks and beatings, stripped down his identity. All that suffering, all that fear. It's redirected. Associated with other memories._ He pauses. _Or a person. Change their memories. Memories of you_ , he clarified like she didn't already understand Wallace hurt her the only way he knew how, _make you seem life-threatening. They turned him into a weapon, Clarke. To kill you._

She laid down on her side, back turned towards Shaw. _The people who love us hurt us the most_. That's what he said. That's what he wanted her to remember.

 _We are trying to reverse it, sweetie_ , her mom assures her each time, pushing back her hair from her face, when it's been days, when she should be able to talk and still hasn't, _fear is difficult to overcome, but it's not impossible. The president put together a team. I'm optimistic._

Optimistic. When she said that, she pulled the covers up to her ears, ignored her until she went away. Optimism wasn't good enough. Not when they took the person who deserved it the least and turned him into something he never wanted to be, always feared to be. A monster.

They talk to her, and she's thankful, because she doesn't have to talk back.

* * *

"He's been calmer with the healers," Wells tells her, after she doesn't know how many days. They all blur together. But the bruises have yellowed, and her voice no longer sounds strained when she tries it out, vocal cords no longer swollen from the impact. "But they're strangers to him."

He brought her something to eat that isn't in a fluid state, and she's grateful for that, even if it does hurt to swallow the sturdy bread. But it's good. He watches her eat for a while, then smiles, careful, sitting on her hospital bed beside her feet. "They want to test his response on someone he remembers. From home. Someone he trusts."

"Octavia," she checks, quietly, putting the roll down on top of her tray. She's not so hungry anymore.

"Yeah," he confirms, and his smile fades, traded for a doubtful bite of his lip. His dark hand hovers above her ankle, hesitant, then he puts it down on top of it, decision made. "I can take you, if you'd like."

She swallows, mouth feeling dry, picking the bread apart, just to keep her hands busy. Doesn't she at least owe Bellamy _that_? To give him another chance? Give him as much chances as he needs? Then, she makes up her mind, wiping the crumbs off her hands on her hospital gown. "Okay."

They stand in front of a big, rectangle one-way mirror not much later. Clarke and Wells watch him stare at the ceiling, calm, restraints around his wrists and ankles. He was taken to a more secluded area, out of the medbay, to keep him away from as many stimuli as possible. He looks exactly how she remembered him, maybe a little thinner, a little more tired, but the same in so many other ways.

Octavia smiles at him as she steps inside of the room, treading over to him softly. Her long brown hair is braided back from her clean face, grey jumpsuit just a little too big on her small frame. "Hi, big brother."

"Octavia," he breathes, eager, as soon as the recognition dawns on him, trying to sit up as far as he can with his limbs tied to the bed, eyes raking her face like he can't quite believe it's really his sister. A beat passes and then he adds, "How are you feeling?"

Clarke can't help it, but she's on the verge of crying. He was taken. He was tortured. They took his memories. And he still only worries about others, about his sister. She steps closer, presses her fingers against the glass. She wishes—she wishes it was her instead, above all. That it was her behind the other side of the glass. That she didn't have to keep from reaching out for him.

All Octavia's defenses seem to come down, probably realizing the same thing Clarke had, and she puts her arms around her brother. He tries to hug her back as best as he can, straining the restraints. He lets out a shuddering breath against her hair—like he's been holding his breath for too long—and she presses a loud kiss to his temple, smiling through the relieved tears, "I'm okay."

He seems to relax a little, shoulders sagging as she pulls back, steps back. He puts up his palm, looks at her, desperate almost, and she covers it with her own, wiping at her eyes with her free hand. He licks his dry lips, hint of a smile playing on his lips, like he's not quite sure why he's smiling. Then it's gone. "How did you get here?"

"We live here. In district thirteen. It's a real place." She smiles, weak, pensive, maybe even reminiscent. Of their lives, before Clarke, when Octavia was the only on he could share his myths and legends with. "The stories were true after all, Bell," she explains, and his fingers close tightly around hers, as he listens, attentive. "You were rescued, and brought here."

His forehead creases in confusion, getting restless again, shifting on the bed, hand flexing around Octavia's. "What about twelve?"

"There was an attack," she states, not further elaborating. It's probably best. Not to push him too much. Realizing twelve was gone was hard enough on its own, when your brain was still yours, memories still your own.

"It's Clarke," he says, conspiratorial, and her heart breaks inside of her chest at the sound of her own name. At the way his eyes narrow together in disgust. "It's because of Clarke."

Octavia seems confused at his hatred for her—even _knowing_ what he did to Clarke, what he tried to do, with his hands around her neck—like that hadn't been enough to convince his sister it really was over between the two of them, that something had changed for him. No more _you and me_. No more _together._ Octavia assures him, stubborn like always, "It wasn't because of her."

"Did she tell you to say that?" He commands, demanding, yanking on one of his restraints. She pulls her hand back quickly, and for the first time in her life, Clarke sees fear flash across Octavia's eyes. His chest starts heaving up and down faster and more irregular, layer of sweat starting to cover his skin, and his brown eyes searching the room, wild and suspicious.

"She didn't tell me anything, Bell," she counters, full of disbelief, searching his face for the truth. Clarke doesn't have to. She already knows he means it. Then, Octavia's eyes narrow, her jaw clenches. "I don't follow orders. You're my brother. I shouldn't have to tell you that."

"She's a liar," he presses, each word louder, each word more desperate for his sister to understand, each word making it harder for Clarke to breathe. "You can't trust her." _That's a mortal lock_ , that's what he told her in the arena. When she asked him if they could still trust each other, even if they could trust no one else. If it was still the two of them against the rest of the world, the rest of the arena. _A mortal lock_. "She's a monster. She's a mutt that Polis created to destroy us!"

"Bellamy, calm down," she yells, frantic, and she steps closer—even if he's fighting against the restraints, even if not too long ago he tried to choke his best friend to death—because that's who Octavia is. She doesn't understand why he's acting this way, why he's saying the things he is, why he won't just _listen_ to her. "What you're saying isn't true, it's not _real_."

"She knows you're here now," he implies, getting more agitated by the second, trying to move his limbs, and Clarke vaguely registers Shaw telling the other guards to pull Octavia back out. Bellamy keeps repeating, determined, frenzied, "You have to kill her, O. You have to kill her!"

"It's a conditioned response," Wells reminds her quietly on the way back to her room, when the silence gets too deafening, "It's not him." It's not him, but it _is_ him. She can't help but wonder if this isn't just his unconsciousness bubbling to the surface, if a small part of him thinks it _is_ all true, if a small unconscious part of him blames her, and wants her to suffer like he did.

"No," she agrees, morose. Intentions aside, unconscious or not, either way, it's working. And it's easier to compartmentalize it, to think of this person as someone else who just looks like him, to not think of this person as the one she knew, to not think of this person as _her_ person. It'll be easier like that, once they figure out he isn't fixable and that her version of Bellamy was gone forever. "It's not him."

* * *

She's tired. Tired of sitting on her hands, waiting around, watching him through a window, hoping things might change when there's no guarantee they will. Maybe too much has changed, maybe that's the problem.

No. The only problem—the only _real_ problem is Wallace. He has to pay for what he's done. She has to remember why she started this. Who she started this for. Her people. They're still there, they're still fighting, Wallace has gotten to them yet. Not all of them.

"I want to help the rebels in any way I can," she tells Diyoza during a mandatory meeting, when she can't take much more of it. The talking about peace and war in the same sentences. "Send me to Polis. I'll fire up the troops. Call out the loyalists. I'll do anything."

Of course the president doesn't agree, has reasons, good reasons to. They can't get into Polis until they control district two. District two controls most of the weaponry, manufactures them, trains and recruits Peacekeepers. If thirteen controls their arsenal, controls their soldiers, they can get to Polis. If they get to Polis, if Clarke can get to Polis, she can get to Wallace. If she can get to Wallace—so they send her to two.

Fifteen minutes before their hovercraft is scheduled to leave, she goes to pick up some new arrows in Raven's self-proclaimed workshop. She breaks off in the middle of an explanation about a new long-distance arrow she's developing, that Clarke was only half-listening to to start with.

"It's hard to see Bellamy this way," she suggests, after a beat of silence passes, stilling her hands on the electronics in front of her. Clarke's head snaps up to meet her gaze. It's not so much a question as it is an observation.

"That's not Bellamy," she counters, gravelly, forehead creasing as she slings her bow over her shoulder. Not her Bellamy. It's been more weeks of halted progress. It isn't hard to pretend like he's still gone for Clarke, still missing. Like she's still waiting for him to get back. That way she won't have to think about—she doesn't have to grief. She's done enough of that to last her another ten lifetimes.

"I saw him," she admits, fixated on something over Clarke's shoulder, like she can see the memory play out there, then inhales sharply. "After—" Raven halts, again, glancing over at her neck briefly, very briefly, ducking her chin as she continues tinkering with a screwdriver and some sort of green metal plate.

"After he tried to kill me," Clarke clarifies coldly, unimpressed. Raven was usually never one to shy away from anything. And Clarke's thought about it a lot, woke up every morning since it happened, covered in sweat, unable to speak, unable to move. Thought about how perhaps they'd just postponed the inevitable. One of them was always supposed to die in that arena. She always said it should be her, maybe he was just following through on it. She wonders, often, that if it came down to it, the two of them, no way out of the arena, what would have happened. Cynical, she prods, "And what did you think?"

"Doesn't really matter what I think," she exhales loudly, impatient, annoyed even. She hisses as a spark of electricity shocks her flesh and she sucks on her finger, for just a second, to relieve the sting. "I'm no healer, no therapist. What's going on in _your_ head? What do you want to do about it?"

What she thinks.

She _feels_ naive. Stupid. All this time, she'd assumed that they would be able to pick off where they left off, that everything would be the same, that they would be on the same page. That she could still read him as easy as the back of her hand. Now— _now_ it was painstakingly clear that they'd both taken a different turn, taken different journeys, started different stories. That he started over without her, that there might not be any role left for her to fill. That this is the end of their story together, all the pages used up.

Mostly, she feels exhausted. Because she can never turn it off, never _stop_ thinking. Turning off her feelings was relatively easy. Turning off her thoughts proved to be a lot harder. Seeing him made it worse, but she couldn't—watching him was like torture, knowing he was there, so close to her, but not _actually_ there. But not watching him? That wasn't an option, never was. She just got him back and whatever may have happened between the two of them, her promises still stand. Clarke shakes her head, as if to shake away any lingering thoughts. "I have to go." She picks up her backpack, slings it over her free shoulder as she tucks some hair behind her ear. "Thanks for the arrows."

Raven's jaw twitches, knuckles white from where they're wrapped around the screwdriver, and for a second it looks like she's just going to let her walk away. Then, just as she turns and passes the threshold of the workshop, "Clarke—"

"Yeah?" She backtracks, turning on her heels, hand coming up to steady herself against the doorjamb. Their eyes meet, understanding, or maybe not quite at all. Raven didn't need to say what she thought about him, about his recovery. It was clear as day she considered him a lost cause.

She grits her teeth, brief, pained, like she's been through this before, through losing someone but not _really_ losing them. "You can't fix him, and I know that must really suck for you, because that's what you do. I fix stuff, you fix people." Her hands wring together on top of the table, and her mouth opens, but it takes a second longer for her to start back up again. "But you better figure out what you're going to do if he doesn't get better, or you'll never be able to let him go."

 _Let him go_. Wasn't she long past the point of no return?

* * *

Shaw sits next to her, babbles on, way too friendly, way too cheerful. Tells her and the others about a stroke of genius he had the other night, thought of another booby-trap, one that might make Diyoza a little more appreciative of his resourcefulness. "You throw in a bomb, just smoke that clings to the eyes, I'm sure Reyes could whip something up, you know, just blinds anyone in the near vicinity. People get scared, flee into one direction, away from the smoke. _Bam_." Clarke actually flinches when he claps his hands together, adjusting the bow around her shoulder uncomfortably. "Two-tiered explosion. You allow them enough time to rush in, help the wounded, and then—a second bomb."

He doesn't mean it in a bad way, thinking of the enemy as something sub-human becomes almost like second nature when it's you versus them. Clarke knows that—hell, she's done it. Besides, Shaw is an avid fan of friendly small talk and is probably just trying to distract her like Harper always tries to do, but Clarke's in a foul mood, is hardly ever in any other mood lately. Combine that with the chronic lack of sleep and the conversation she just had with Raven, and she was bound to snap, even fully well knowing she was being a hypocrite that not long ago was willing to move heaven and earth for the rescue of one person, that did things in the arena that still kept her up at night. "I guess there's no rules anymore about what a person can do to another person."

"It's war, Clarke. There's no rules in war," he counters, hands flexing on his rifle, and she guesses she could agree with that, but he doesn't stop there, and that's his mistake. "I don't think Wallace was using any rulebook when he hijacked Bellamy."

Miller actually winces, to Shaw's credit, because he doesn't do much else beside be systematically angry at everything all the time.

"Don't talk about him," she bites, venomously, before fixing her gaze straight ahead, inhaling sharply. They didn't get to throw him in her face like that. Didn't get to use him against her, too.

It's painfully quiet the rest of the flight, everyone avoiding eye-contact with her like she'll break them in half if they don't. Except for Monty, but she guesses he's used to the silence. When they touch ground, while the rest is gathering their supplies, he comes over and touches her shoulder, for just a second. His smile is comforting, but she's not sure it's something she deserves.

District two is well-guarded, by both military and civilian personnel, and with good reason. It's basically Polis' headquarters for all offensive operations. There's one building in particular, a fortress, lying beneath bedrock, untouchable. The rebels made multiple attempts to overtake the gates, but haven't accomplished much besides heavy losses.

Shaw nods, as he listens to one of the rebel commanders on the ground explain their previous plans of attack. "Could we create a decoy?" He prompts at one point, starting up about his damn plan again and making Clarke grit her teeth together to keep from snapping at him. He lifts a shoulder indifferently. "Sends troops towards one gate, launch an attack on another."

"Whose troops do you propose as a decoy, Mr. Shaw?" The woman in uniform counters—Byrne, she thinks her name was—sharp edge to her voice as she rolls up the blueprint on top of the large stone table they're all huddled around, in the midst of an abandoned building. Indra's there, too, since there wasn't anything left to fight for in her district.

"We have the Mockingjay," Harper states, simply, and Clarke freezes, feels too many eyes bore into the side of her face. "Don't underestimate her. She can sway the loyalists. We could use her to erode support—"

"I didn't know you had any combat experience, McIntyre," Indra cuts her off, sharp and cynical, eyebrows raised and Harper ducks her head, mouth snapping shut, but it's not—shameful. No. She _really_ believes Clarke can convince the Polis loyalists. Maybe Clarke has to, maybe she has no choice, and she'll have to find a way.

"District thirteen has been underground for a long time. _This_ isn't like the rest of Panem," Byrne reasons, turning her attention back onto Shaw and ignoring Harper's little outburst. Clarke is thankful for it. "Here support for Polis runs deep."

"Even with every district in this alliance we are outgunned, outnumbered. We need to control the arsenal inside that fortress," Shaw replies, insistent, shaking his head lightly, arms crossed over his chest. He's so young, Clarke thinks, so young and raised into a war. She wonders what he would've been like if it hadn't been for Wallace's regime. A Peacekeeper? Or maybe something as simple as a baker, or maybe a teacher. He has kind eyes, children would like him. She knows war changes you, but what if war is all you are?

The arguments go on and on between Indra, Byrne and Shaw and they all make a point. They need that arsenal to get to Polis, but it seems useless to waste even more human lives for just guns, when the people there have lost so much, so recent and they have no assurance it'll even work.

"Would it be enough to disable the fortress?" Clarke cuts in, when they don't seem to be getting any further, going over everything again and again, coming to the same conclusion every time. It's not worth the risk for some, and for others no risk is too grand. Heads snap her way, surprised, annoyed, impressed, it's hard to tell. She clears her throat quietly, tongue darting out to wet her lips. She's not just the face of the Rebellion, you know. She isn't stupid—without the rebels she'd be nowhere and she knows it—but she's not useless either.

"What do you have in mind?" Indra takes pity on her and Clarke exhales loudly, pinching the bridge of her nose. She puts her bow on top of the table, resting her hands on the edge of it. "We're not going to be able to fight our way in, so we have two choices. We trap them inside, or we flush them out."

"Clarke's right. We can't attack straight on, but we can use our hovercraft to strike around it," Shaw agrees immediately, as Byrne unrolls the blueprint back on the table so he can point at various parts of the building. "It's easy, really," he glances over at Clarke for just a second before he sums up, "Use the mountains, hit the weak spots, use seismic data to trigger avalanches. Block their exits, cut off their supplies."

"Bury them alive," Byrne clarifies, tone hard to read as her eyes rake the blueprint like she's going over the plan again. Shaw nods, echoing her in agreement. "Bury them alive."

"We'd forfeit any chance to control the weapons," Byrne reasons, after a second, gaze insistent on Indra—who most likely has the most experience between the two of them. It's true. The loyalists not being able to get out would mean the rebels not being able to get in either. Clarke figured it was a risk they had to be willing to take.

Indra nods, slow, meeting Byrne's gaze. She still hasn't spared Clarke a single glance. "Yes, but we'd face a weakened Polis." It always comes down to the same question. Will the endgame justifies the means?

Byrne sighs loudly, rubbing her temples as she looks back at the blueprint. Her last reservation, "There's civilians in there."

"They should be given a chance to surrender," Clarke cuts in, quickly, because whatever they might think about her, she did consider what it would mean for the people inside if they were to do this. They don't have to be more nameless casualties in this war. There's been enough. They still have a choice. "We could use one of the supply tunnels for the evacuees."

"That's a luxury most of us weren't given by Wallace," Shaw declares, bitterly, and his eyes flick up to meet hers. They're darker, like he's trying to ignite the same fire in her gaze. He lost people, too, Clarke knows that. "Neither was twelve, when they were firebombed."

"I thought blood must have blood was their slogan," she hisses in return, not backing down. Isn't the point that they do this differently than Wallace would? That they don't just waste human lives like they mean nothing as long as it benefits them? They shouldn't get to choose who lives and who doesn't. The people inside can do that themselves, if only they give them that choice.

Indra, thankfully, seems to agree with Clarke, breaking the tense silence in the room. "Civilians can escape out of the tunnels into the square, where your armies will wait for their surrender. We should have every available medic on stand-by, just in case."

Shaw huffs, devoid of even an ounce of humour, but his eyes are a little less like death. "And if they don't surrender?"

Indra tilts her head, eyes finally landing on Clarke, one eyebrow cocked, highlighting the scars stretched across her face. "Then we will need a compelling voice to persuade them."

(Byrne catches her by the arm later just as she's about to join the last briefing before the plan is set in motion, and Clarke still doesn't quite know how to label her tone and the look on her face. "That was quite the plan, Miss Griffin."

When Clarke doesn't say anything, she adds, corners of her lips turned up, "Now we know they don't call you the Commander of Death for nothing."

Clarke doesn't even think she means it in a bad way, means it more as a compliment. But for her, it just means another reason she lies awake at night, another reminder of the things she did. She opens her mouth, but decides against arguing with her about something as trivial as nickname. Instead, she yanks her arm back, and bites, "Yeah, well, you all wanted a Mockingjay, didn't you? Now you have her.")

They wait until dark. Shaw stands beside her, and for the life of her, she can't understand why he just won't leave her alone. Too curious, too insistent on wanting to understand. "What's the difference, Clarke? Crushing the enemy in a mine, or using one of Reyes' bows to blow them out of the sky."

She took lives, she can't deny that. _Maybe the fight is all we are._ She doesn't pretend she's any better. The difference is, there's another way. Now. That's the difference they have to make themselves. "We were under attack in district eight. They just bombed a hospital. That hovercraft wasn't filled with civilians."

Miller huffs from her other side, tinkering with his camera, as he absently adds, "Doesn't really matter, does it? Even if those civilians are just mopping floors, they're helping the enemy." He looks up from the device in his hands, lifting a shoulder indifferently. "If they have to die, I can live with that."

She can't. Not again.

She catches Harper's eye but she looks away, like she agrees with them. Even Monty is staring at his feet, although he does look uncomfortable. Shaw breaks the silence, quietly concluding, "No one who supports Polis is innocent."

"With that kinda thinking, you can kill whoever you want," she spits, pushing herself off the wall and shoulders her bow higher in aggravation. How do they not get it? That she's tired of the useless bloodshed, that they should be too. "You can send kids off to the Hunger Games to keep the districts in line." She runs a hand through her hair, cynically adding, "Bombs away."

Shaw sighs, hand not on his rifle coming up to scrub over his face. "It's war, Clarke," he says, carefully. "Sometimes killing isn't personal. Figured if anyone knew that, it was you."

But it is, isn't it? You're the one stabbing someone in the heart, firing off an arrow into their chest, wrapping your hands around their neck, pulling a lever that kills 300 innocent people—it's the choice you make, you above them. Your life, for theirs. A choice that you can keep on making, or you can put an end to the cycle.

Her voice comes out hoarser than intended, looking at him over at her shoulder, before stalking off to be away from them, "I, of all people, know that it's always personal."

Kane wrote her a speech, but she tossed it back in district thirteen. Harper comes over at one point when she probably has to start shooting soon, and touches her arm, just a second, knows better now than to believe she would ever go by the script. Tells her to remember it's not just the rebels listening, but also Polis, also the survivors in two.

"Make it quick," Shaw reminds her, stoic, right before they round the corner leading to the tunnels. There's a train track, usually utilized for transporting the coal from the mines to other districts. They send out the message what they're about to do. "You're exposed."

"This is Clarke Griffin, speaking to all of the loyalists from the heart of district two," she starts, positioned in front of a train, a few hundred feet removed from the tunnel. It's dark out, and it's hard to make out where everyone is, but she figures it won't matter if she doesn't address the camera directly.

"There's survivors coming," Indra hisses, low, everyone taking their posts and getting out their firearms. Except for Harper, who has other priorities, instructing Miller with a wave of her fingers, "Tighter."

Out of habit, Clarke reaches for the bow on her back, keeping it in her hand, just in case.

Everything that follows next happens so quickly, Clarke barely has any time to register it. Defectors run out with weapons and her people tell them to put them down and get on the ground. The bombs are dropped, the sounds of the explosions deafening, the blasts making the ground shake. People are yelling and screaming and crying and some idiot fires off a gun, one of the civilians dropping to the ground with a whimper.

Clarke's feet are moving before she knows it, kneeling down at his side before Shaw has a chance to pull her back. The man on the ground doesn't make a noise, doesn't move a finger, but it's hard to make out if he's even bleeding, the surroundings too dark. The blonde is trying to feel for a pulse, pushing aside the man's uniform but then all of a sudden—the civilian grabs her handgun off her hip and has her by the arm in one swift move and—she has a gun pointed at her chest.

"Drop it," Shaw warns the civilian from behind her. His voice shakes just a little and she's not sure if its because of her or because of the symbol she's supposed to be. He doesn't have much to work with, considering Clarke's body is blocking the man from most of his view. If Shaw moves, she dies. "Drop the gun!"

The man ignores him completely, eyes flicking down to rake her face. His grip around her arm tightens, pulling her even closer and it seems to rub him the wrong way that she doesn't even do so much as blink twice. Quietly, he growls, "Give me one good reason I shouldn't shoot you."

What does he expect her to say? That she doesn't deserve it? That she has a lot left to live for? That she's young and in love and doesn't want to die? Clarke swallows, thick. "I can't."

Her jaw tenses as he pushes the barrel further into her chest, pressure hard even through her uniform and he must think she's mocking him. He's the enemy, she has to remember that, but all she can think of right now is their similarities. Maybe she can use those against him. She grits her teeth together, figures she at least has to try not to die tonight. "It's the problem, isn't it? We blew up your building over here. You burned my district to the ground."

He doesn't do anything but stand there, probably making up his mind about her, probably not expecting her to agree. She continues, "We each have every reason to want to kill each other. It's probably justified. So if you want to kill me…" She keeps his gaze, shaking her head lightly as she narrows her eyes. "Go ahead. Make Wallace happy." She huffs humorlessly, nodding down to the gun as if to encourage him. "I'm tired of killing his slaves for him."

That seems to catch his attention. He hisses, "I'm not his slave."

"I am," she admits, genuine, voice tight. _You always have a choice_ , her mother used to tell her when she was little. She could've chosen not to kill anyone, to lay down her weapons and accept what was coming. But right from the start, she played along with Wallace's games, and that's on her and nobody else.

She shakes her head lightly fixating her gaze onto the gun as if it'll help her collect her thoughts. "It's why my dad killed eight tributes," his arena was a desert and the panic attacks he would get just at the sight of sand still haunted her mother to this day, "It's why _I_ killed Atom," her first, "It's why I killed Otan," he grew up with the Games, believed they were the greatest thing he could achieve, saw her as nothing but an obstacle, "And he killed Myles," who was small and defenseless and so young, too young, "Why Finn killed himself," because he saw no other way out, Clarke's voice catching in the back of her throat.

She takes in a shaky breath, swallowing down her emotions. "It just goes around and around and it never stops." There's always one more battle to win, one more person they have to sacrifice. Her forehead creases, shoulders straightening in anger, "And who wins? Always Wallace."

She scoffs, stepping close to the man so the barrel digs even deeper into her uniform. She narrows her eyes, looks him straight in the eye. "I am _done_ being a piece in his games. District twelve, district two. We have no fight. Except the one Polis gave us. Why are you fighting the rebels?" Did they ever stop and think about? She knows she didn't always. "You're neighbours, family. These people are not your enemy. We all have one enemy, and that's Wallace."

"He corrupts _everyone_ ," she has to close her eyes for a second, to push the memories—of warm, freckled skin and dark, messy curls and a special smile just for her—away and make sure her voice is steady as she continues, "and everything." Most of all the people who don't deserve it. Most of all if it's just to make a point. "He turns the best of us against each other." All those tributes he turned against each other. He turned Luna against her own brother. Turned Bellamy against her. Even now. "Stop killing for him," she commands, insistent. And maybe she is getting a little too confident, a little too reckless, but she can't back down now. "Tonight, turn your weapons to the capital. Turn your weapons to Wallace—"

Next, she squeezes her eyes shut as a gunshot rings through the air loudly. Somebody cries out her name, and then everything is black.

* * *

Later, when Octavia shows her the clip where she gets shot, it doesn't feel real. The bruises do, every time she so much as breathes or moves an inch, but she feels like she shouldn't have walked away from that. Like anyone else wouldn't have. For the life of her, she can't figure out why she is still alive. Always alive.

She got a private room to recover, of course, even it it's just the few bruises and a cut on her forehead from the fall down. Octavia did a pretty good job stitching her up, probably a better job than an out-of-practice Clarke could've done on herself.

The morning after, when she jolts awake, she's still tired. She barely catches any sleep these days, and when she does, she doesn't wake up rested. She doesn't have anything on her, not her father's pin or her tiny shell, and she's spent enough time locked up in their medbay. She's not going through that again. She hisses as she rises into a seating position, managing to stumble out of the bed in her hospital gown as long as she presses a hand to her abdomen. She grabs onto the nearest object to steady herself, which happens to be an IV-pole, staggering outside of her room only to almost run into a wheelchair.

Echo's inside it, a sneer forming on her face at the sight of the blonde, taking one hand of the wheel to salute at her mockingly. "If it isn't our Mockingjay. Whatever did I do to deserve being in your presence?"

Kane told her she was in on their plan. It makes sense now. The cornucopia, why Echo ordered the Careers to pull back when they could've easily killed more of them. Clarke just doesn't know why. It doesn't seem like she is particularly taken with the rebels or Diyoza.

"I'm not really in the mood," she snaps, raging headache pounding harder and harder with every second she stands. She tries to circle her pole around the wheelchair, but the other victor remains firmly in place, hooking her long fingers tightly around the metal of Clarke's IV-pole.

"You know, me and Bellamy," she states, casual but with a nasty edge to her voice, and Clarke inhales sharply, nostrils flaring. She can't really listen to another person lecturing her on the only person in the world who used to know her best. Who now can't stand the sight of her. "We got pretty well aquintanted while we there. Sharing a wall. Let's just say we know what makes the other scream."

She doesn't want to spend more time imagining what they did to him, how they hurt him, how they scarred and traumatized him, because of _her_. Because of Clarke. She wants to spend more time figuring out how to make Wallace pay. An irrational part of her is almost jealous. That Echo got to be there for him while she couldn't. Maybe that shows on her face. Maybe Echo knows just what button to push.

She tuts spitefully, knuckles turning white around the metal. "The commander of death. Always there to save her people. Ever considered he doesn't _want_ your help?" There's a lazy smirk on her face, like she takes pleasure in watching Clarke suffer. The blonde has to close her eyes for a few seconds, force her heartbeat to steady as she pushes away the image of his dark eyes, his fingers digging into her neck, his tears dripping down onto her skin.

"We all have blood on our hands, don't we?" Clarke bites back, hastily, and maybe it's out of jealousy again. That Echo might know him better now, might know what he wants. Better. This version of him. She doesn't like what she's implying. "It was you, right? Who told Wallace all the victors in the arena were in on the rebels' plans?" Clarke yanks the pole away from her, a humourless huff leaving her lips. "Once a traitor, always a traitor."

At least she hits a sore spot, because Echo tightens her a jaw. One of the first cracks on her always perfectly neutral face that Clarke has ever seen. "Only a fool would fight a war they can't win."

Deep down, Clarke knows she is right. She knows that Echo could've never escaped, never escaped Wallace and his Peacekeepers, never escaped the death by a thousand cuts. She knows that she might have done the same had she been in her position. Telling Wallace what he wanted to hear was the only thing she could do to save herself. She tried to survive the only way she knew how, even if that meant betraying other people. Clarke couldn't fault her for that.

Yet, in this moment, she still blames her. _You always have a choice_. They've all done horrible things. Echo betrayed Bellamy and Emori, made them out to be liars, made their torture possibly worse. Echo played a part in Emori's death as much as Clarke did. And even if it makes her a hypocrite, Clarke can't— _won't_ forgive her for that.

In hindsight, she should've realized her words were a warning.

She finally manages to push past her, making it to her own room in less than thirty minutes. Which must be some record, considering every breath she takes leaves her in unbearable pain. By some miracle, she manages to lay down on her bed without throwing up. Her eyes are just about closed, when a voice brings her back to full consciousness.

"Damn. I didn't believe the whispers when they said you were limping around the bunker like a zombie, but up close it's even worse."

"Thanks, Raven," she replies, sarcastic before pushing out a deep painful breath.

"What's your damage?" The bed dips as the mechanic sits down on the foot end.

She closes her eyes again, listing off, "A few hematomas, bruised ribs, bruised lung."

"Surprised they haven't found you a new one yet," she snorts. "You want one of mine?"

Clarke uses her ankle to push against her hip, unfortunately not even getting a flinch out of Raven. "I got shot."

"Please," she crosses her arms over her chest, eyebrow raised. "The bullet didn't even touch you. Lincoln made sure of that with his bullet proof armor."

It's kind of strange. How he's still saving her life, even after he's gone.

The corner of her lip turns up slightly, then it disappears. "One of the head healers comes to see me everyday. Jackson, right? He's helping me adjust to reality." She almost rolls her eyes. Her reality. "Was that my mom's idea?"

"You think me and Abby sit around all day talking about you?"

"No. But I'm an overlapping interest."

Raven lets out a humoured huff. "Sure." Then her face straightens. "Jackson, he is not the same kind of healer that Abby is. He helped me, too, when I first, uhm. When my leg stopped working. He helped me—"

Clarke raises her eyebrows. "Adjust to reality?"

"Yeah," Raven confirms, eyebrows pinched together. There's a beat of silence, her hands wringing together in her lap, which is so unlike her it startles Clarke for a second. "It's not just your body that went through the trauma, Clarke. At one point, one is going to affect the other."

If there's one thing she's good at, it's changing the subject. She worries her bottom lip between her teeth. "Do you think I made the right decision? Not letting them bury those people alive?"

She inhales, sharply, dragging out the silence. Clarke already knows what that means. "I think it's working. The whole defender of the weak and defenseless act. Even if it's not an act." She puts her hand on top of the victor's shin, only hesitating for a quarter of a second, and Clarke doesn't understand how a girl whose life she ruined can stand to be in the same room as her. How she could possibly be so strong. "It's working. Polis is only afraid of one thing, and that's you."

* * *

Pushing aside the material of her jumpsuit, she observes the purple bruise covering most of her ribs, one angry dark red mark in the middle of it. It hurts, but it's not too bad, not considering the war that that's going on across the nation, the people getting murdered. Her people. She pulls her white tank back down, stuffing it down before zipping her suit back up, shell and her father's pin tucked away safely in one of the pockets.

It's only been a day since she got semi-shot, but she wants to see him. She doesn't know if she stills believes in miracles, if there's any good left in the world, but just being in his presence used to help her clear her head. Maybe seeing him will help her do the same, will help her get some sleep, ease her mind.

When she makes her way over to the disclosed area he's in, Kane is already watching him from behind the two-way mirror with his hands clung together behind his back. There's a pensive look on his face, and when she follows his gaze, she sees why. They're showing Bellamy the clip, the clip of her supposed death.

"Why would you show him that?" She snaps, fingers curling into her palms as she steps closer to the window. Tears are collecting in the corners of her eyes as she watches him fidget under the restraints around his arms lightly, listening to her speech.

"We're trying to show him what would really happen if you were gone, if he accomplished what they want him to," Kane explains vaguely, not breaking his gaze away from Bellamy. "If he understands the consequences."

Consequences? They changed his memories, not his brain. Do they want her to give up on him? Do they want to show her how little he cares? Do they want to break her heart all over again? She's woken up in sweat-soaked sheets ever since he's been gone, mind and dreams filled with memories she worries she'll never be able to think back on without feeling heart wrenching guilt. She wishes—she doesn't know what to wish for. That he never met her? That he never had to suffer like that? She presses a palm to the glass, letting out a shuddering, watery breath.

"I get it," she croaks out, roughly wiping at the tears on her cheeks with her wrist. She can't look at him, not when they pull the trigger. She can't bear it. "He wants to kill me. I think we've established that."

"If he wants to kill you," Kane counters, solemnly, after a beat passes, finally turning his head to look at her. "Why is he crying?"

"Maybe he wanted to do it himself," she bites back, bitterly, turning back to watch Bellamy's face—numbly staring ahead as silent tears roll down his freckled skin. She would be mad, too, if someone got to Wallace before her. She hates him _so_ much, so much, she wants to watch him suffer, wants to watch the light leave his eyes. She used to think she wasn't capable of such thoughts, such actions, but the arena changes you. If they made Bellamy hate her even half as much, she doesn't even know how she survived his first attempt. "Maybe it's relief."

"We want you to go in, Clarke," he informs her, matter-of-factly, one of those pretentious all-knowing looks on his face. Still, his words hit a sore spot for her. "We showed him footage. He had real memories." They didn't take them all.

That may be, but she lost most of her optimism the past few years. She doesn't think she's right for him. The indentations on her neck may not be visible anymore, but they were there. It happened. She doesn't know what to do if it happens again. "That still doesn't mean I'm going in there."

"He's strapped down, he can't hurt you." That's not it. She's not afraid of dying. She's afraid of looking him in the eye and realizing he's really lost. That she really lost him.

"No," she decides, shaking her head lightly as she pulls back her hand from the glass, wringing her fingers together instead. The TV in front of Bellamy is now only showing static, the look on his face deadly neutral, and if it wasn't for his cheeks still being wet from moisture she would think they hadn't even showed him anything at all. "I don't want to."

Kane opens his mouth, eyes raking her face painfully slow. Then he closes it, letting out a heavy exhale as he turns to look back at the two-way mirror. "It's for Bellamy. What's the harm in trying?"

She knows he's playing her, that he knows just what button to push, and she resents him for it, but she also can't help but think he's right. She's got to try.

* * *

She knocks on his door before going in, like an idiot. When did she unlearn him, unlearn how to be around him? She winces when the door shuts behind her, even though she knows there's four guards stationed behind it, her mother and Kane observing from behind the one-way mirror.

"I watched you die, you were dead," he declares, calm but incredulous, ducking his head so he can wipe at the tears on his face even with the restrains around his wrists. After a beat passes—after he doesn't explode at the mere sight of her, after she feels like she can finally let out the breath she's been holding—she steps closer, further into the harsh lights above his bed. He blinks up at her. "You look terrible."

"That's old news," she counters, light, not sure where to set the tone on this conversation. _Normal_ , her mother had instructed her beforehand, _try to remain some sense of normalcy_. Clarke wasn't even sure what their normal was anymore. If their history could also be their present. Her hands come up to rest on the safety railing of his bed. Mostly so she doesn't stand there fidgeting like an idiot, but also to keep from reaching out. She wants to avoid his gaze, but like it's magnetic, she can't.

"Old news, huh," he repeats, like the word tastes strange in his mouth. The corner of his mouth turns up just slightly, her pulse skipping a beat at the familiarity of it all. "That's an oxymoron."

"So is cold sweat," she replies, more smug than she originally allowed herself to be before she came in, reaching out to brush away a damp curl of his forehead reflexively. He doesn't flinch, or say anything, just looks at her with a curious gaze as she quickly jerks her hand back, wrapping it back around the safety railing, knuckles white.

"When I saw you die, I remembered something," he breaks the unbearing silence between them after what seems like forever, eyes still fixated on her face. She bites down on her bottom lip, trying hard not to push him too much. "During your Games, I convinced all those sponsors to send you donations. The things I promised them—" He pauses, for just a second, tongue darting out to wet his lips. "Why would I do that?"

She swallows, thick, trying to steady her heart-rate. An image of the messages he sent her flashes across her mind, his big, blocked, messy handwriting, _brave princess_ , hope in the form of a card when she had none left. She sucks in a breath, lifting one shoulder lightly. "Because you cared." He frowns, like that doesn't explain anything, like he couldn't have possibly cared that much about _her_ , so she adds, "Because you're good. You didn't want me to die."

"They messed with my head," he confirms. And that's good, right? That's he aware. There's the faintest of worn smiles, like he's still trying to make _her_ feel better and her chest lurches. "At least I still got my heart."

It's a stupid joke that comes out flat, that they've made a million times between the two of them, but it makes her laugh, watery, crying and laughing at the same time, like a dam breaking, tension dissipating from her frame. He remembers. He still remembers the good things, too. She shakes her head, forces herself to swallow down the rest of the tears. She missed him so much. So much. And there's even more she wants to tell him, things she should've said a long time ago. "Bellamy, I—"

"You love me," he concludes, cutting her off, and it's not not really a question, even if there's the hint of doubt in his voice. His eyebrows are furrowed together and when she doesn't answer right away, when the quiet they lapsed into starts eating away at her, he corrects himself, "You're in love with me."

She clenches her jaw, tightening her grip on the bed, shoulders straightening. The thought makes her want to run. "No." She sniffs, deflating, swallowing down the tightness in her throat as she searches his face and just finds a neutral expression. He's not mad, he's just trying to piece his memories together. "Yes." Is she? She hasn't been before, not like this, hasn't felt like this about someone. Not Finn, not Lexa. How can she be certain? How can she be certain she isn't just fucked up, that she even knows how to love another person like that? That she isn't just telling him that so hopefully they'll go back to how they used to be, because she's selfish like that? How can she lie to him? The only thing she knows for sure is that, "I love you."

It's why they tortured him, isn't it? Because she loves him, and they wanted to hurt her. She's not sure if a confession like that would make it better, make it seem like it was worth it, because it probably wasn't. She wasn't worth it. Everyone that's special to her, dies. Finn. Lexa. Can she take the same risk with him? She's not sure she can. She just got him back.

"You love me," he echoes, dumbfounded and even if they tainted his memories, she hoped he would still believe that, still remember that. His eyes narrow when she just blinks at him in confusion, voice sharp, "You love me, but you killed our baby."

 _Our baby._ It feels like the breath just got knocked out of her, as she stares at him, jaw-slacked, shaking her head lightly. She tries not to cry, tries not to look so guilty, but it was _her_ lie, wasn't it? She never meant to hurt him, but she did. She saw it in his eyes after the interviews, after she told Cage they were having a baby. Together. Because part of him wanted it to be real, someday, and she used it as another hand to play, another piece in the game, like it meant nothing. A part of him that wasn't tainted by Wallace yet, that was still just his, that she took away from him too. "No, no, Bellamy—try and remember, please. That wasn't real."

It was never real. They never even—they were never even like that. But she played right into Wallace's hand, always one step ahead, always knows just how to outsmart her and use her own words against her. And to admit that now, to admit the baby wasn't real, he might think the rest wasn't real either. That she never loved him either.

"Not real," he echoes, staggered, chest starting to heave up and down with shorter and shorter intervals. He pulls on his restraints, ever so lightly, just once, like he's angry. Like he wants her to know he's angry. The skin under them is red and raw and bloody. "Wallace told me that everything out of your mouth is a lie."

 _But you love me too_ , she wants to yell, shake him, shake some sense into him. Or at least he did, once. Instead, she lifts her shoulders, not sure what to say. She could deny it, but that could just be another lie. Something dark washes over his face, his eyes so distant, so dead, it's hard to believe he ever looked at her in any other way. "All I know is that I would have saved myself a lot of suffering if I'd just let you die in that arena."

It was all too much at once, her mother reminds her, when she slams the door shut behind her and leans back against it, trying to catch her breath but never quite feeling like she can. She wants to believe that, that it's a process and he'll get better eventually, but. But she can't help but wonder if this is what it'll be like from now on. Stolen moments where everything is like it used to be, before the darkness wins and everything is like it was never supposed to be.

"We don't know much about hijacking with tracker jacker venom, I'm not going to lie," her mother admits, hand on her shoulder as she leads her to a nearby examination room. Clarke still feels like she's not getting enough air inside her lungs, like the walls are closing in on her, like she might faint any second, like her heart is racing, like she might throw up, like this can't be happening, like she isn't really here, and her hands—her hands are shaking, shaking when her mother props her on top of the examination table and takes a hold of them. "Just breathe, honey," she says, calm and soothing, thumbs running over the back of her hands. "You're having a panic attack. It'll be okay."

"I'm going to talk, and you can listen. Listen to my voice. Just tell me if it gets too much, if I need to stop. Just focus on your breathing." Abby smiles at her, soft, waits until she nods before she continues. Still knows her daughter. Still knows how to talk her down from the ledge. Logic. "Like I said, we don't know much about the effects of this type of hijacking, but I imagine it's a lot like PTSD."

Clarke is thankful for the distraction. Her mother's voice helping her mind not to wander, helping her help him. That's all she wants. To not be useless.

"It's going to take time. Don't pressure him into talking. Let him take the lead, okay? It's important to create some sort of routine for him, for you to do normal things with him. He knows what comforts him best, what offers him support."

Her head feels less light, fingers only trembling slightly. She inhales deeply, fingers tightening around the edge of the table and then releasing when she feels like her breathing has normalized enough for her to talk. She forces her voice to be steady. "Even if he doesn't want me there?"

"I'm sorry, sweetie," her mother confirms, wistful as she brushes a strand of hair away from Clarke's face. "But I think so. Patience is key. Give him some space."

Space. That's a foreign concept for the two of them. When have they ever given each other space?

* * *

It's barely another three days before they ask her to come back. They've released him from his restraints because he's doing better and hasn't shown any signs of aggression. He's managed to have civilized conversations with his healers, and even managed to carry out a few with his sister without getting triggered. Now he's asked to see her and they want to try it, see if he's ready for his _re-socialisation_. Thirteen doesn't believe in long term imprisonment.

Shaw doesn't take her down to his room, but instead leads her to the elevators. It takes them upstairs, maybe to the mesh hall on one of the top levels, she figures, but then holds up a hand to shield herself from the bright light as the doors slide open. It's sunlight. They took him outside.

Octavia is waiting for her beside the elevator and Clarke looks over her shoulder to see Bellamy crouched down in one of the open patches of grass in between the trees, looking at the flowers. His sisters beams at her. "It was my idea. Abby said it was good to do normal things with him. He practically spent half his life in the woods. I thought it might be good, you know?"

Clarke nods, silently and Shaw squeezes her arm for a second before dropping his hand. He spend the elevator ride up telling her basic rules; not to touch him, not to stand too close, that as the head of security he has the right to break off the meeting if he deems it necessary to do so. "Remember, there'll be four guards on sight the entire time. Including me."

She nods, takes one more look at Octavia—who nods at her in confidence—and then trails over to him. He doesn't seem to hear her, even if he always used to tease her about her loud footsteps. "Bellamy?"

He freezes at first, then rises to his feet slowly, shifting to look at her. He swallows, adam's apple bobbing up and down visibly. His jumpsuit is tied around his waist, white t-shirt stretched across his chest and contrasting starkly with his brown skin. The sunlight catches in his eyes, highlighting the specks of gold inside of them. He's so beautiful.

"You wanted to see me?" She checks, hoarse as she avoids his gaze. She's pretty sure she's flushed all over. She misses him all the time, but to miss him when he's standing right in front of her is killing her slowly. Too feel so awkward in his presence is foreign to her, too.

"Yeah," he breathes, soft, looking surprised by the sound of his own voice. He stuffs his hands into the pockets of his suit and kicks at a small stone with his feet. When he looks back up, she raises her eyebrows. Her mother told her she should let him take the lead, and even if she physically has to bite down on her tongue, she's going to let him do just that.

He opens his mouth, then closes it again as he observes her quietly. "I'm, uhm," he breaks off, scrubbing a hand over his face. "I'm sorry. I barely get any sleep and it's hard to think clearly."

 _Me neither,_ she wants to say, _not without you_ , but instead curls her fingers into her palms and settles on something safer, "I understand."

"We," he starts, then ducks his head, fixing his gaze on his feet. She can make out his balled fists through the fabric of his jumpsuit. He exhales loudly, like he's frustrated with himself, then continues, "We, uhm. We used to sleep together. Is that right?"

"Yes," she confirms, crossing her arms over her chest to keep from fidgeting as she tries to keep her face neutral even when he's talking about the two of them as an unit again. "We both get nightmares. Sleeping together that—it helps." She swallows tightly. "Helped."

"Can I—" He cuts himself off, cursing something under his breath as he runs a hand through his hair. His curls are a mess. She's not used to him like this, shy and unsure. He looks her straight in the eye this time. "Can I give you a hug?"

"Clarke," Shaw says warningly from a few feet away, body on high alert, but she figures he should know better by now. He doesn't tell her what to do. And what she wants to do is show Bellamy that she trusts him. That no matter how hard he pushes, she's not going to run away. Not this time.

"That's okay," she dismisses Shaw, tongue darting out to wet her bottom lip. She can't say that isn't what she's wanted to do ever since she got him back. Wrap her arms around her and have him hug her right back. Maybe he thinks it'll help him remember. How they used to be.

Shaw makes a move like he's about to walk over, but Octavia stops him, pulling him back a few feet as they talk in hushed voices. Clarke's thankful for the space, because with the way Bellamy's looking at her, even an open spot outside feels like the tiniest room in the world.

Tentatively, Bellamy treads closer, opening his arms in a way he's done for her a million times before. Yet, he looks like it feels unnatural. He inhales sharply as she steps inside of them, carefully wrapping her own arms around his waist and resting her chin against his shoulder. It takes another beat, but then his arms fold around her and he's tense, so tense, until she clasps her hands together behind his back. He sighs, shoulders deflating as one hand comes up to press against the back of her head, sliding down to rest in between her shoulder blades. They stay like that, for just a few moments before he pulls away, abruptly and urgently. He looks a little panicked, but then she musters together a smile as some sort of compromise and he lets out a deep breath she hadn't noticed he'd been holding.

His forehead creases as he checks, curious glint in his eyes, "Your hair is shorter?"

"It is," she affirms, heart wrenching painfully in her chest. The corners of her mouth turn upwards, wistfully. "I always wore it in a braid. You would pull on it all the time." It's quiet for a moment, as he thinks it over, tries to remember. She's still close to him, so close, too close. Her whole body aches to touch him again, but she wants him to want her to touch him. But if the memories pain her this much, she doesn't have to imagine what he feels like reminiscing. She's talking before she can stop herself. "I never meant to hurt you, Bellamy, you know that, right?"

"But you left me there," he states, calm, devoid of any anger safe for the little dimple above his eyebrow ticking. Let him take the lead, her mom said. She should've kept her mouth shut. "And you lied." About the baby. About staying together. She promised him that. She didn't follow through. Even if they hadn't messed with his memories, he would still have every reason to hate her.

"I didn't want to," she counters, quietly, pushing some hair back behind her ear before crossing them back over her chest like a shield. She feels like they're discussing two strangers. "I never did."

His jaw flexes, before he snaps, "Is that supposed to make it okay?"

"Nothing's okay," she whimpers, and then she's crying because she's so useless and like he can't help it, like some unsuppressable instinct, he wraps his arms back around her, pulling her into his chest. Her hands fist into his white t-shirt like she doesn't ever want him to pull back and he weaves one of his hands back into the blonde locks on the back of her head. Softly, trying to make her feel better like always, making her feel understood like always, he says, "I know it isn't."

He smoothes some hair back from her face and she sniffs, blinking up at him as her sobs silently fade. Her heart feels too big for her ribcage, and even if they can't be looking at each other for more than a few moments, it manages to squeeze in at least seventeen breakneck beats. It feels like coming home, like she's re-entering her body, recognizing who they were and who she was all at once in his brown eyes.

She vaguely registers Shaw saying something about that being close enough, but she can only fixate herself on the way Bellamy's leaning down, fingers flexing on her sides. She can only imagine what it feels like to touch him like _that_ again, to not feel broken, to not feel homeless.

Then his fingers tighten for just a second, his forehead creasing together as he shoves her away. "No," he shakes his head, squeezing his eyes shut like he's commanding a memory to go away. She wets her lips, and they taste salty. "No. You left me because—"

"I didn't _leave_ you," she presses, breaking him off as she steps closer to him again, desperate. Erratic almost. Why doesn't he understand? "Why would I leave you? For a rebellion I never wanted to begin with?"

"You're lying. You did want it. You tried to kill Octavia, you tried to kill me, you killed our ba—"

"I never tried to kill you, Bellamy!" She bites back, because she can't let him finish that sentence. Not again. She wants him to remember, needs him to, has to say it like it still means something. "We protect each other. You and I. That's what we—"

He has her up against a tree in no time, his arm digging into her windpipe forcefully. Not too hard, so she can't breathe, but definitely applying enough pressure to remind her he could kill her right now if he wanted to. Even if he doesn't look sure of it himself, searching her face.

Shaw and another guard are already surrounding them from each angle, guns aimed into their direction. "Bellamy, step away from Clarke."

Clarke holds up a hand, signaling for them to stay back with a firm glare. They will only make it worse, and then she won't be the only one who's dead. Bellamy doesn't even seem to notice, completely unaware of all of their surroundings. Of his sister just a hundred feet away, of four guards ready to pounce on him the second they get the chance. Unsure, he suggests, "I should kill you for what you did."

"Probably," she admits, gritting her teeth together to keep from breaking down in front of him. She still trusts him, even if it's irrational, still trusts him so fucking much that she'll allow him to crush her windpipe if he thinks that's what best. If that means it'll finally be over.

He opens his mouth to say something, but then he lowers his arm, steps back from her, head shaking lightly. One hand comes up to press against his brow bone, trembling. It's like he's fighting some internal war with himself. For a second, she recognizes the look on his face. Then his head snaps back up, his eyes narrowed, "I want you to die—"

He starts, surging back forward, but a guard glides up behind him to put a needle into his neck, his body slumping over within seconds. "Get him to the medbay," Octavia orders, already rushing over to his side to check his pulse and check the injection site. "Restrain him."

Clarke sinks down into a crouch, back against the tree as she presses her hands to her face. Is this… How is she supposed to—he wants her to… What is she supposed to do? She can't fight his memories for him. For all she knows it's not just the memories they _planted_. She can't—she doesn't know what to do anymore. She's only making everything worse for him.

"Clarke," Octavia says, soft, small hand curling around her arm to push it down, away from her face. When the blonde opens her eyes, the other girl is in front of her on her knees. "It'll be okay."

"You saw what happened, didn't you?" She retorts, short, voice raw. It's not fair to lash out at her, certainly not just for looking like him, but it's hard to suppress it when her emotions are all over the place. "I'm not sure we're ever going to be okay." _Nothing is okay._

"You are," Octavia presses, confident, leaning forward so she can put her hands on top of the victor's shoulders firmly. "They could make him hate you, but they couldn't make him not love you."

Clarke looks away, shaking her head lightly as she uses both hands to push her hair away from her face, leaving her hands planted behind her ears, weaved into her wavy hair. She wants to believe that, she does, but she can't. Not after what happened, not when she knows— _feels_ —that's what's going to happen every time. Every time she opens herself up to him, he's going to use it against her. And she can't—she can't help him. Not now, maybe not ever. She can help _them_. If she thinks about this rationally—she can still help them.

"I know it's your instinct to run, but you can't run from this, Clarke," Octavia cuts off her thoughts, brow creasing together as she hesitantly pulls her hands back. Apparently she could tell exactly what Clarke was thinking about. "He needs you."

Needs her. She's told him so many times that she needed him when needed to hear her say it, when she needed him to hear it. Somehow she can't do it this time. More than anything, she needs _him_. She can't do it without _him_. And he can barely stand the mention of her name. Her voice shakes. "Our people need me."

That's still true. They do. She promised herself she would do anything in her power to win this war. For them. If he ends up hating her for that, it'll be the price she has to pay. A price that's worth it, has to be worth it.

"Yeah," Octavia blurts out, face hardening at the realisation there's nothing she can say to make Clarke change her mind. "I guess so." She sits back on her heels, hands on top of her thighs as she looks at Clarke one more time, searches her face but then shakes her head, apparently not finding what she was looking for. "You're not the person I thought you were."

She pushes herself onto her feet, and then she's gone. Clarke takes a deep breath, digging her fingers into the ground to help steady it. She wants to help him, wants to be there for him but she also has an obligation to make sure they win this war. That time is now. If they don't, it's only a matter of time before Bellamy gets taken away from her again. For the same thing to happen to their people all over the nation. Anyone would make the decision to choose—to _save_ an entire country full of people over one person. She knows that. It might not feel right, but if she considers all the options, if she thinks about it objectively, it's the right thing to do. She has to fight. She has to end this. It's her only choice.

* * *

It's been barely a week since she was shot, and the rebels are close to reaching the outskirts of Polis. Outer blocks of the city have been evacuated and Clarke suspects they did it on purpose. They must know she's not really dead. Thirteen would have used her as a martyr by now, plastered her face over screens across the nation and milked the tragedy for all it was worth.

She tries to convince Diyoza to let her go back, but the president is convinced Clarke has done her job. Unified the districts. That now she just has to sit back, rest and heal. If she really knew the victor, really cared about her as a person and not just her symbol, she would know that wasn't an option.

"The last time the rebels saw me I was lying on the ground," she'd tried arguing with their president. The rebels needed to know she was alive and ready to fight. That Wallace hadn't won yet. She should be with them, with the troops.

"We won't let this momentum go to waste," she'd shot her down, easily, like she'd been expecting this conversation. "We'll make more propos right here in thirteen, showing them you're alive. As far as they know, you survived a bullet to the heart. It's barely been a week. They'll understand why you're not with them." She'd smiled. "When we win, we'll fly you in for the surrender."

Clarke had wanted to argue some more, make her case, but she knew it was no use. It doesn't matter anyway. Last she checked, Diyoza may be the president, but Clarke is in charge. Without her propos, without her speeches, without her voice—where would they be? _Where_ were they, when she was out there, fighting other kids in an arena? She _will_ find a way, with or without the leader's permission. She always does.

"Strange, huh? How we're celebrating the loss of human lives," Luna says after Clarke finds her in a crowd of people, watching a few dozen citizens of thirteen drink moonshine and dance to music like they haven't got a care in the world. They broke out the booze special for the occasion. They're celebrating the victory of thirteen in a battle in district one, signaling they're closer to triumph than they've ever been.

Clarke answers, absently, looking around aimlessly. Unsurprisingly, it isn't easy to escape from a bunker. "They're happy that our people are advancing, that they might finally experience freedom."

"Our people," Luna echoes, arms crossed over chest and eyebrows raised, gaze still fixated on the mass of drunken, cheerful bodies. "They're all our people. The sooner we realize that the better." She shifts her head to look at the blonde, skeptical. "Or are we going to round up everyone who opposed the rebellion and make them fight each other to the death?"

Clarke meets her eyes, but doesn't say anything, biting on the inside of her cheek. She opposed Shaw and Miller and the others when they called everyone in district two the enemy, even the innocent bystanders. She doesn't think they're all evil. Just one of them. Luna takes this as a sign to continue, fingers flexing around her elbows. "You saw him, didn't you?"

The blonde inhales sharply, eyes fluttering close briefly. She doesn't want to talk to Luna about Bellamy. She wants to tell her what she's going to do about it, about what he did to Bellamy. How she is going to make it right. "I'm going to kill Wallace. Nothing good is safe while he's alive." Especially not Bellamy, and he was _good_ , so good. Wallace will ruin everything he touches, just for the fun of it. Her voice wavers slightly, but remains insistent, "I can't make another speech. No more cameras or propos. No more games." She grits her teeth together to keep from spilling any tears. "He needs to look me in the eyes when I kill him."

The corners of Luna's pink lips turn down, eyes compassionate as she covers Clarke's back with one of her small hands. Solemnly, she reveals, "It isn't the way, Clarke."

It isn't? It's not _blood must not have blood_ , she knows that, but she meant that for after the war. For everyone but Wallace. He made Luna kill her own brother, so at least _this_ , she'd thought Luna would understand. Clarke sighs, pinching the bridge of her nose, tired. So tired. Luna always seems to know better, always seems to know a better way and Clarke will do anything at this point. "What is?"

"It's easy to kill someone," she responds, strange tone to her voice as she pulls her hand back, fumbling with the pendant hanging from her neck. Clarke knows, knows the things you are capable of doing in the name of survival, in the heat of the moment, when it's either you or them. It isn't until you watch the light leave their eyes and the moment passes that you realize what you've done, that your hands will never be clean again. "Even a president. Are you willing to sacrifice yourself for it?"

They both know the only way to kill Wallace, to get that close to him, would mean she might never come back. She can accept that. She has to. Her life doesn't matter as much as thousand of others. It's an acceptable loss. But it isn't just that, Luna means. She also means killing Wallace will give him another piece of her that she can't ever have back, give him the satisfaction of knowing he took something else from her, that he made her that way, that he created her, that they aren't so different after all. That blood must have blood.

Clarke opens her mouth, staring at the side of Luna's face, but before she can say anything, someone else slithers up on her other side. "They're shipping supplies to the front lines from hangar six at midnight." It's Murphy, voice eerily casual.

Her head snaps to him, jaw-slacked. She didn't even know they let him out. Diyoza could've given her a heads up, considering the promise he made her. _I want you to die._ He lifts a shoulder, pressing the rim of a flask—undoubtedly filled to the brim with moonshine—to his lips, then he pulls it back slightly to add, "I was going myself to score some painkillers, but I could cover for you instead."

"Murphy," she stammers, heart hammering loudly in her chest, still not sure this is real. The last time she saw him, he vowed he was going to murder her. Now he's here, making small talk? "Why would you want to help me?"

" _Help_ you?" He snorts, derisive, taking a swig of the moonshine and swallowing it with a light hiss. His eyes are slightly glazed over and completely bloodshot. "Before I would even have the chance to do so much as reach out and _touch_ a hair on your royal highness' head, they'd have a needle in my neck and me back in that damn cell." He smirks, pleased. "This is clearly a suicide mission. Nothing would make me happier than to hear you died, even if it isn't by my hands."

She exchanges a look with Luna, who shakes her head lightly, but Clarke has already made up her mind. She'll try everything. Even taking help from Murphy.

* * *

"You're supposed to be in a hospital!" Wells exclaims as soon as he sees her, grabbing her by the arm to pull her aside and away from the whispering and pointing horde of rebels who spotted her getting off the plane despite the hoodie she pulled over her head. He's been in the field for a while now, something he trained for ever since he joined the rebellion. His eyes rake her face and body for any signs of injury. "I can't believe Diyoza allowed this."

"She didn't," Clarke replies, simply. She didn't, but the Mockingjay at the front lines of battle? That's mythic, that's TV gold. A stroke of genius. It'll be their idea along, or that's what they'll claim. They won't pull her back out, not now that she came this far, and that's all that matters to Clarke anyway. She didn't come here to take credit for anything.

Wells is about to reply when Commander Baum's voice beams over the speakers in the camp. Indra got transferred to this base after her own district was practically obliterated and the battle in two ceased. She says thirteen districts stand together, that they're facing an enemy that will not change and will never surrender. Wallace has fortified the center of Polis, evacuating the outer blocks of the city. She presses the civilians will be confused and desperate and that they should not be targeted. Clarke is grateful for that, at least.

Wells pulls her forward, a little bit more into the crowd, so they can see Indra, on top of one of the cargo containers, megaphone pressed to her mouth. It's not hard to recognize Gaia in her features, even with the facial scarring; their deep sepia skin, their strong bone structure, their fighter's stance. Indra probably taught Gaia how to fight, probably helped her win her first Games. If only Clarke could've done the same for her the second time. Her throat feels thick all of sudden, and it's hard to swallow.

Indra's voice pulls her back to reality, and she can feel Wells' eyes bore into the side of her face. "We're deploying medical brigades to help anyone in need. We'll show the capital who we are." The plan is to make it to the center of Polis—Wallace's mansion—and tear down it's gates.

Once Indra is finished rallying their forces, Clarke sits down on a nearby crate, putting her backpack between her legs and getting out her bottle of water. Wells is still eyeing her curiously. She's about to snap at him for staring when he offhandedly mentions, "Looks like you got your meals covered."

"Preparation never hurt anyone," she lies, easy. She forces a teasing smile upon her face, hastily stuffing everything back into her bag, including her abundant collection of provisions. "It's why I was always good at Earth Skills and you barely got by."

He doesn't smile back. "Don't lie to me. I _know_ you." He grits his teeth together, shaking his head lightly as he looks up at the sky, locking both of his hands behind his head. When he finally looks back at her, his face and eyes are hard, arms dropping limp at his sides. "I know when you're gonna go off on your own." Because that's what she does, she runs away when things get hard. It's why she hid in the prohibited woods for hours after her father died, it's why she left the Victor's Village, it's why she left Bellamy's side. It's too late to back down now. "You going to leave me behind, too?"

It's a low dig, especially after what Octavia suggested before she left. Wells' nostrils flare when she doesn't answer him, doesn't contradict him in any way. Like he said, he knows her. It's useless to try and lie to him. "As your fellow soldier I highly command you stay with your unit." He huffs, pinching the bridge of his nose. "But I know better than to think I could stop you."

Before she can say anything else, Indra clears her throat behind her friend. "Jaha. Griffin. This is your new unit." She steps aside to reveal a middle-aged, white woman with raven black hair. "I'm Lieutenant Cooper." She throws a thumb over her shoulder, "This is Sergeant Scott. Panem's best sharpshooter. He's my second in command."

A tall dark man gives them a nod before Cooper moves on to the next person. "You know Shaw and Murchadh." Shaw gives her an unimpressed look, probably for sneaking out, and Luna just stands there, axe lodged to her back with a special harness. Why did she come? She said it wasn't the way, so why would she risk her life too?

"These are the Coltons," Cooper breaks her out of her trance, waving a hand over to two tall, asian men, one of them older than the other, but distinctly related. "Both first combat division."

"And then there's—" Cooper nods her head to her other side, and Indra steps aside to reveal, "Raven?" Clarke exclaims, taking a step towards her, worried. She has zero field experience. "What about your leg?"

She shrugs, indifferent, raising her eyebrows defiantly. "What about it? I'm good with my brace." She purses her lips together, crossing her arms over her chest. "Besides. There's going to be a minefield of traps and lethal devices every turn you take." The pods, Indra mentioned them during her speech. Wallace's sick way of making a sport out of their deaths and putting his gamemakers to use. A final use, that will be. "Somebody's going to have to disable them. You need me."

"What about Sinclair?" Wells presses, whole body rigid, and he looks like he's going to argue with her about this. He apparently didn't know she was joining them either.

"He's in a wheelchair," Raven deadpans.

"Monty's an engineer," he counters, without skipping a beat. Surely wherever Clarke goes, her propo team will follow.

"A _sound_ engineer," she corrects him, one perfect eyebrow cocked skeptically. It's clear he's not winning this battle. Clarke can't pretend like she isn't worried either, but ultimately, it's Raven's choice. Seems like Wells knows that, too. "What's he going to do? Mute them to death?"

"Now that we've all made ourselves aquintained," Cooper interrupts their quarrel with a raise of her brow bones, hands firm on her hips. "Each one of you is elite in some form of combat, but we are a _non-combat_ unit. We'll be following days behind the front line troops. We're to be the onscreen faces of the invasion." She makes a point out of looking at each individual to see if her point got across, then concludes, "Squad 100."

Clarke feels her blood literally boil. If she's is going to die she wants it to be for a cause, not a spectacle. With a camera continuously pointed at her face, it's going to be harder to slip away and get to the mansion herself. Then again, without Raven the pods might kill her even if she does escape. "Because of me?"

Cooper presses her lips together in a tight line. "It's been decided that you're most effective when seen by the masses." It's not a yes, but it's not a no either.

Wells seems to share her doubts, forehead creased as he checks, "We're not going to fight?"

"You'll do whatever you're ordered to do, soldier." Their new boss' face hardens, straightening her posture in a way that makes Clarke uncomfortable. "It's not your job to ask questions."

"Yes, ma'am," he replies with a firm nod, the conversation obviously dismissed as Cooper marches off. Raven claps Wells on the back as they start to make their way towards the makeshift barracks, Clarke not far behind them, still lost in thought. "Well thank God. Your aim's shit anyway, Jaha."

* * *

"Our instructions are to shoot propaganda footage on the battle scarred streets of Polis," Cooper reminds them, a few feet in front of the squad, both hands on her rifle. She signals for Scott and the Coltons to check up ahead for any risks, and Shaw takes advantage of the two minute break and turns to address the rest face to face.

"This is a warzone, don't forget that. It will not be safe." His eyes linger on Clarke's, insistent, like he just knows she's going to the one most likely not to remember. Her whole life is a warzone, so it might even be true. "It's likely that we'll encounter both active pods and peacekeepers." He wiggles a finger between the blonde and Luna. "You're both considered high value targets to Polis."

Luna sighs loudly, looking out over the street instead of at Shaw. He continues, "In the event of capture you'll be given a nightlock pill altered to act immediately." He shoots an annoyed look at Harper, who's instructing Miller how to film him while their head of security gives them this lovely pep talk on how to die the fastest.

Raven rolls her eyes, backpack slung over her shoulder and her long fingers wrapped around a small tablet balancing on her hip. Her shiny hair is up in it's signature ponytail and she's wearing a red bomber jacket over her all black uniform. "The pods are probably on every block. We have this holo," she holds up the device to show them, "that contains a detailed map of every known pod. They can trigger anything, from bombs to traps to mutts." She makes a point of looking everyone in the eye with that trademark quirk of her eyebrow, reminding them, "We _cannot_ move without this."

"There's no guarantee the database is complete," Shaw adds, matter-of-factly, arms folded over his chest, even if Raven is looking at him like he just stole her thunder. "There could be new pods that we're not aware of."

"I made another modification." _Of course_ she did. "It has a self destruct option, in case we get caught. We don't want Wallace to know we have the intel. about the whereabouts of his precious pods." She taps a fingernail to a button on the top of the tablet. "Flip the switch and say nightlock three times and boom goes the dynamite. It blows itself and anything within a ten foot radius to pieces."

Shaw sounds resigned, jaw flexing pensively. "Even with the holo, it is likely that new pods have been set. Whatever they contain, they are meant to kill us."

Clarke and Luna exchange the briefest of glances, the latter one inhaling sharply before she seems to read the blonde's mind, muttering under her breath, "Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to the 76th Hunger Games." Clarke opens her mouth to ask her why she's risking her life, because that's the first real interaction between the two of them since they were reunited—the first _real_ familiar connection between them—but Luna is already closing the distance between her and Cooper.

They take some shots of her walking through the abandoned streets of Polis, but luckily they don't make her talk. She doesn't have much left to say. They never get far, because Raven has to disassemble a pod every fifty feet.

She catches Luna by the elbow—after the third loud sigh when Harper asks for them to stop so she can get a better shot of Clarke with her bow—signaling to Monroe that they'll catch up in a second when the ruddy girl stops to wait for them. She's no longer confused, she's also a little pissed off. No one is _forcing_ her to be here.

The brunette stares at her, unwaveringly calm as always. Clarke's voice might come out a little sharper than intended. "Why did you come?" Why is she risking her life when she said this wasn't what she wanted, wasn't what she wanted Clarke to do? Luna knows why Clarke's here, but why is she? Will she try to sabotage her plan in the long run? Did Diyoza force her to come? What is she holding over her head?

Her answer surprises the Mockingjay. "Because I want to stop running." It's ironic, because isn't that exactly why Clarke is here? Because her first instinct was to do just that? "When I first met you, I told you every one of us should die because I was hurting so I lashed out. I still am, and I always will be, but I'm done letting other people suffer because of that." She pauses, reaching out to wrap her fingers around Clarke's pale limp hand and squeezing softly. "You're not just my people, Clarke. You're my family. Wallace killed most of them, but you're still here. You, and Bellamy and Sinclair and Murphy. Even Echo and Anya." The victors. The victors' purge took care of the others. Wallace took care of most of Luna's district, too. "I came here because I wanted to help you. I may not agree with your mission, but I stand by you. That's what family does."

All this time, Clarke was so wrapped up in herself, in Bellamy, that she never even noticed Luna was right there beside her all along. That she hadn't always been appreciative of that, of what Luna did for her in the Games, what she sacrificed. Even after that. There's so much she could learn from her, they all could. Clarke never allowed herself to let other people in, when she already had too many to worry about. Unconsciously, she had already. The blonde squeezes her hand back, head inclining slightly as the corners of her mouth turn up, barely. "You're mine, too."

In the evening, they settle down in an empty building to take a much-needed break. Clarke knows her odds of escaping are minimal. She needs that pod to make it across the minefield the Gamemakers planted but Raven has it permanently attached to her hand.

"You're not going to get it off her while she's awake," Wells says, quiet, because he's always been able to read her too well. He sinks down on the floor beside her, leaning his head back against the wall. He holds out his canteen for her, and Clarke takes it, grateful. She takes a few big swigs of water, then wipes her mouth with the back of her hand. She's about to speak when they hear a truck outside.

"Is that Peacekeepers?" Old Colton asks, hushed, lifting himself up to his feet and pressing his back to the wall nearest to the exit so he can carefully look around the corner and scope out the nearing vehicle. Young Colton settles down right beside him while Cooper takes out her radio, "Squad 100 to base. We got a truck coming in from the South. Over."

Voices crackle over the radio while Wells helps her up from the floor, lifting her rifle of her shoulder for her and pressing it into her hands firmly. Her bow lodged on her back for show only nowadays. Cooper barks out, "Stand down everyone. It's friendly." The tension in the room deflates and she lets out a breath she didn't know she was holding.

Most of the non-combat / combat unit steps outside to meet the incoming soldiers, except for the propo team and Raven, and Clarke freezes dead in her tracks when her eyes make contact with the first person walking towards them. Two other soldiers are pushing him forward and he's wearing one of their uniforms, rifle in his hands. His mouth is moving, but she can't make out what he's saying until he's a few feet away.

"My name is Bellamy Blake," he affirms himself, voice soft but raw like he's been using it for hours on end, eyes directed at his feet. There's a firearm in his hands, but he holds it like he doesn't know what to do with it. "My home is district twelve. I have a sister, her name is Octavia. I competed… I competed in the 67th Hunger Games."

It reminds her of what she told herself every time after she was on the verge of a panic attack after waking up from the umpteenth night terror by herself. To remind herself who she was, what was real and what wasn't. Her heart breaks. Him being out here—it's not good for him. He isn't ready.

Most of her squad have their fire weapons out and aimed into his direction, and instinctively she takes a step forward, to shield him as best as possible. They've probably already made up their minds about him, about the guy who Wallace brainwashed and turned into his own personal weapon. Shaw sticks out an arm between Clarke and the rest of the squad, probably more to keep them from shooting the Mockingjay by accident than to support her cause, and commands, "Everyone relax."

Cooper comes up behind him, shifting his arm down and instructing him to, "Cuff him." Then she turns to Bellamy, who's finally noticed Clarke, and is now just staring at her like she is the only one there, slight crease in between his brows, curls falling into his eyes. Gently, Cooper treads closer, "Soldier, this is just a precaution till we have everything sorted out, yeah?"

After a second, Bellamy nods, barely, gaze still insistent on Clarke and she's still standing there like an idiot, blinking right back at him. She wants to touch him, wants to ask him why he's here, comfort him, but she's no longer sure that's what he wants or needs. If it's what _she_ needs, because every time she does let him in, it gets harder to push him away again. Then, Shaw takes his firearm from him and puts a set of metal cuffs around his wrists, blocking her view.

Shaw situates Bellamy on the floor inside, instructs both Coltons to guard him, and leaves to discuss in the corner with Cooper and Scott in low, harsh voices. They aim their guns at him, even though he's restrained and he's obviously not even in the right mental state to fight anyone, and she has to bite down on her tongue till she tastes metal to keep from exploding.

She stalks over to the trio, catching the back half of Cooper's explanation. "...want to add him to the propos. Show that he's on our side now."

"It's not safe," she cuts in, amandant, all three of their heads snapping her way. _It's not safe for_ him. He'll get hurt, out here, where everything is uncertain and everything could be a trigger. He doesn't deserve that, after what he's been through. He, at the very least, gets to be safe. Safe away from her.

Shaw seems to think she means something else, because he nods, adding, "He's not in control of himself." That's what he saw. When Bellamy strangled her, and then again when he had her up against that tree. Maybe he's not wrong, but she doesn't care about all of that. She just cares about him.

Cooper sighs, jaw flexing as she pinches the bridge of her nose. She's obviously in a bit of a conflict here. Then, she presses her hands together, "We'll move forward a few blocks tomorrow, shoot some new footage. We'll schedule an around the clock watch on him." Scott agrees, and Shaw nods, so that's that. Clarke isn't naive enough to think she can change this woman's mind when she's under direct orders of her president.

Their boss decides, "The Coltons till 2100, Shaw and Jaha till 2300. Murchadh and me can take the next shift."

"Give me a watch," Clarke blurts out, wrapping her arms around herself, and she hates herself for sounding so desperate. Her eyes dart over to him for a second, Luna now settled down beside him and offering him half of her bread roll.

The lieutenant lifts an eyebrow, skeptic, "If it really came down to it, you think you could shoot him?" This woman barely knows her, but thinks she can see right through her. _You love him_. _Anyone can see it_. Luna told her that, said that seeing them gave her hope. Seeing them now must've taken it all away, because here she is, among the rest of them, directly fighting the war in the field. Something she didn't think was the way.

Clarke grits her teeth together, briefly, eyes narrowed. Deep down, she doesn't know if she'd be able to. Probably not. But she's done a lot of thing she never thought she would, in the name of survival, so maybe she could. If she really had to. If she didn't think of him as her friend, but as the weapon Wallace made him out to be. "I wouldn't be shooting Bellamy. I'd be killing a Polis mutt."

Cooper tilts her head slightly, putting her hand on top of her shoulder briefly as she passes her, all the while informing her that, "I'm not sure that kind of a comment recommends you for the job either, soldier."

Shaw stops her, "Put her in the rotation." Which surprises Clarke about as much as the small close-lipped smile he gives her. He trusts her? At least Cooper must trust _him_ , because her eyes flicker over to the blonde briefly, before she nods. "0100. Jaha can switch his shift with Scott, so he can take his with Griffin."

* * *

"He's going to try to kill me," Clarke says into the dark, eyes fixated on Bellamy's sleeping form as stabs her knife into her apple and takes it out absently and repeatedly. She's not supposed to be wasting rations like that, but her stomach is too much in knots for her to even think about food. "Especially with all this going on. It's going to set him off."

"We'll keep him contained," Wells assures her, lit by the dim lantern in the middle of the floor. It's quiet for a moment between the two of them, safe for Raven snoring a little beside him, snuggling into her sleeping bag a little further.

"Why would Diyoza do this?" Clarke wonders out loud, leaving the knife inside the apple this time and wiping her hands on her thighs. At this point, does it really matter if Bellamy is on their side or not? Does it matter if he's in the field to show them? They could've recorded a propo starring him back in thirteen.

"She wanted him to be the one rescued from the arena," Wells offers, hugging his knees to his chest, lifting his shoulders casually. "She never liked you. She doesn't like anybody she can't control."

"So she would put my life in danger?" It's a question, but Clarke kind of already knows the answer. She doesn't know why but part of her never trusted Diyoza. She doesn't understand it herself. How can she feel so distrustful of someone who saved her life, rescued her Bellamy, is rescuing her people?

"She'd deny it but…"

Clarke looks at the side of his way questioningly, "What?" He's always good at seeing every side of the story, she isn't always.

Wells exhales deeply, rubbing his eyes with one hand. Then he says, hesitant, "One way or another, this war is going to come to an end. They promised a free election. Maybe she's starting to see you as a threat."

That's what it's about? She barely wanted to be the Mockingjay, let alone the President of Panem. Bitterly, she presses, "I don't want the job." After this, she never wants to be in charge of anything ever again, doesn't want to lead a single person. She wants to be able to breathe, able to not feel like the weight of the world is resting on her shoulders, able to be just Clarke. Not a symbol.

He raises an eyebrow. "But you'd throw your support to someone." She can't deny that. He tilts his head slightly. "Would it be her?"

Clarke doesn't say anything, just presses her lips together in a tight line as she fixes her gaze back onto Bellamy. Probably not.

"She doesn't need you as a rallying cry anymore," he reasons, in a hushed voice, articulating with his hands. "These propos can be done without you." He shakes his head lightly. "There's only one thing you could do that would add more fire to this rebellion."

 _Die_.

She picks at a fingernail, lost in thought. It isn't until Bellamy speaks, gravelly, that she realizes he'd opened his eyes at one point, pulling her back to reality. "I've seen that look before. You looked at me like that in the train. On the way to Polis. After we first met. You hate me."

Clarke meets his eyes, just a few feet across from her, in the faint yellow light. His head is still leant back on the wall, one leg stretched out in front of him. His cuffed hands are in his lap, the skin underneath already raw.

She forces herself to swallow, to try and create some saliva in her dry mouth. She doesn't remember to keep her voice down. "I never hated you. I just didn't like you back then. You were an asshole." Judgemental and unwilling and always that _stupid_ nickname. "Then you got me those sponsors in my games, and after that, I always saw you as my ally."

After that, they only got closer. But ally seems safe. Especially after the last time she implied they were more than strangers, he said he should've let her die in the arena the first time around.

"Friend, lover, victor, enemy, target, mutt. Now ally?" He lists, cynical, lifting his head to narrow his eyes at her, the darkness making the hard lines on his face even more stark. "I'll add to to list of words I use to try and figure you out."

She clenches her jaw, fingers curling into her palms, one knee hugged to her chest. Her eyes flutter close temporarily. They used to always be on the same page, always understood each other. She's not going to lie that his admission hurts.

"I'm sorry," he breathes, shaking his head to himself, teeth gritted together. This can't be easy for him either. He sits up a little, rubbing his forehead with his hand, avoiding her gaze. "I just can't tell what's real—what's _rea_ l and made up anymore."

Luna, who up until this point Clarke had thought was also asleep, puts a hand on top of his feet soothingly by reaching out from where's she's lying on her side, not to far from him, using her other hand to shift her head and re-adjust her hair beneath her head. "Just ask us. We're your unit now."

In more ways than one. Luna had become a good friend of hers, after the arena, without Clarke even noticing, creeping up on her slowly. She probably felt the same way about Bellamy, too. Some screwed up sense of loyalty because they experienced the same trauma. Either way, she cared about them.

Clarke can practically feel the tension radiate off Wells from beside her. He doesn't trust Bellamy. Then again, he never really knew him. Never really knew the things he did for her, said to her, the way he looked at her.

Finally, Bellamy's head turns back to face hers, pensive thought on his face. Clarke smiles at him, weak, shaky, but hopefully encouraging enough. He looks hesitant, but then, like Luna's words are echoing in the back of his mind, he checks, "You like to paint. Is that real?"

"Yeah," she breathes, almost relieved, but has to repeat herself because it's barely audible. "Yeah. That's real." Figuring not only the memories with her are stained, but also the memories without her, she adds, hastily, "You like to read. Not fiction, but myths and legends from ages ago. From history. You love those."

He nods, brief, and he looks calmer, reassured, less fidgety. "Thank you."

She's not done. He's so much more than Wallace told him he was. So much more. She gulps in a shaky breath, then continues, "You're a hunter. You're an archer. You're the best brother that I've ever met. You know every single constellation." Her voice breaks on the last words, and it doesn't get any steadier after that. "You've got such a big heart—" She can barely get the words out at this point, can barely see through the tears, because she's not even sure if he'll ever be that person again, is she? Not sure if everything is just too different now, that there's too much bad blood between the two of them. She pushes herself up onto her feet and goes outside. She needs—some space.

She hugs herself, shivering even if it's not even slightly cold. Wells comes after her, puts his arm around her. He doesn't have to say anything, but because he's Wells, and he loves a good 'I told you so' every now and then, he says, "I guess you're not leaving anymore."

Maybe seeing her like that, back inside, maybe he understands her better now, why she isn't afraid of Bellamy. Clarke shakes her head lightly against his shoulder, wiping at the corners of her eyes with the tip of her forefinger. She echoes Octavia's earlier words, "I don't think I can run from this."

* * *

Shaw hands her a gun the next morning. "It's just for the propo. The mag's still empty," he says at the look on her face, testing it out in her hands, small encouraging grin on his face as he touches her on the shoulder briefly before passing her by.

She can vaguely make out Harper instructing Miller, "I want a full body shot," as Cooper twirls her finger in the air, pointing it forward. "Listen up! We're moving and heading five blocks north."

They start walking, Raven up ahead with Cooper while Clarke trails behind. She stares at the piece of paper in her hand and repeats the words back to herself, lowly, and maybe a little cynically, "To the citizens of Polis. Our war is not with you. You will be a vital part of the democracy that follows our victory."

Clarke can just never make their words sound like her own. Luna has been repeating the lines back to Bellamy, so he could say them in a different shot for the propo, but that was an even bigger disaster considering he barely had a grip on his _own_ thoughts. Luna always remained patient though.

Harper knocks her shoulder into hers, "You're doing great." She smiles, but it fades as she nods up ahead, reaching out to stop Shaw as one of her inspirational looks washes over her face. "Right there—that is a good spot. Through there, in that courtyard."

He nods, probably wanting to get this propo out of the way as fast as possible, "Okay, let's clear it," then jogs up ahead to inform Cooper.

They make their way over to the courtyard, encircled entirely by skyscraper buildings, eerily quiet. Clarke's never been here before, but she can't imagine it's ever been this silent. There's a big triumphal arch at the beginning of the pathway leading to the court, and after that steps leading down to grass fields, and steps leading back up to the different sized buildings.

"Got a pod," Raven exclaims, typing away on her holo as it beeps, and Cooper makes them split up and take cover behind both sides of the arch, backs pressed against the limestone, their chests heaving with harsh and uneven breaths. Clarke stares straight ahead—at the Mockingjay symbol painted on the opposing wall—as they wait.

Raven wipes a loose strand of hair from her forehead, shoving the holo back into her backpack roughly. "This is no use." She grits her teeth together, cursing under her breath as she rubs her temples.

"Stay back," Raven warns all of a sudden from beside Cooper, taking a deep breath before picking up big chipped off piece of limestone and—before any of them even realize what she's doing—propelling it into the narrow opening under the arch. Quickly, she shifts back just in time as bullets are shot from the other side of the arch into their direction.

"Machine guns," Cooper assumes, voice loud to be heard over the shots, as they all cover their ears and hope for the best. Eventually, they stop, probably having run out of bullets, and Raven throws another stone to check.

Shaw steps out from his side first, declaring the site as clear. Cooper tells Wells and Scott to come with her, and the Coltons to go up ahead with Shaw, instructs the rest to wait. While they wait, she checks the other side of the arch. Harper and Monroe are holding hands, and Bellamy is crouched down next to Luna, hands still covering his ears, muttering indecipherable sentences to himself, his breathing shaky. He's covered in a tiny layer of sweat, curls damp and stuck on his forehead. Her jaw clenches painfully and she's about to lift herself onto her feet and go over to him—when there's a loud blast. She knows that sound. She knows that sound because it's what killed Madi.

"Shaw," she cries out, when she checks to see the damage, feet already moving over to him. Cooper tries to stop her, tells her to hold her position. "Griffin, no!" Wells, knowing her better, just follows her instead as she crouches down beside Shaw, yelling out for a tourniquet. There's not much left of his legs. He was close, to the mine.

She presses her hands to his legs, but there's so much blood, she can hardly make out anything. His normally brown skin is pale, too pale. Her voice shakes as she says his name. His hand folds around hers, head tilted back onto the tiles, his breathing choked. "End th-this, Clarke."

"Don't talk," she tells him, squeezing his hand, and he closes his eyes, squeezes them firmly shut. "Cl-arke, kill Bellamy if you—if you have to. Do what you came, came here to do."

She nods, quick and firm, even if she's not sure what he means, if he's been onto her all along, but his hand is softening in hers, his head moving further back. "No," she cries out, taking a hold of his shoulders. " _Shaw_." They didn't always get along, but he never once was unfair to her. He always treated her like a person, always tried to stand up for her whenever he could.

"He's gone," Wells tells her, softly, prying her hands away from his body. She doesn't even know his first name. "He's gone, Clarke."

She nods, tears dripping down her chin as she wipes her hands on her uniform, getting off as much blood as she can, allowing Wells to help her to her feet. Like Indra once said, there's no time to mourn the death until the war is over.

A little further away, Young Colton is on the ground grunting lightly, probably a victim of the blast as well. Old Colton is making his way over there, when he steps onto a plate—a loud click echoing through the courtyard that can't mean much good. The spaces between the buildings start to close up, effectively blocking all their exits as a flood wave of black mass comes up behind them. Quickly, they start running away from it, up the steps, to higher ground, as Cooper points out, "Into that building!"

Wells runs up ahead to help Raven and Clarke's still making her way up the steps when she's suddenly tumbling onto the grass, face first. She groans loudly, first thinking she tripped, but then realizing someone heavy is on top of her. She just in time manages to avoid him hitting her in the head with the bud of his rifle, rolling away onto her side.

"Bellamy, no!" She croaks out, holding up her hands in defense, but when she meets his eyes, she realizes he's not really there, eyes dead. Luna comes up to him, but he knocks her back when she least expects it as he strides back forward to Clarke, rising back upon her feet.

Then, Scott tries to pull him away, but he's too close to the ledge, so when Bellamy shoves him off, he shoves him right into the sea of black mass filling up the courtyard. He's swallowed up immediately, and doesn't resurface.

"Bellamy," Luna bites, pointing at the blackness rising and almost reaching them, as she wraps her hand around his bicep, tight. "Come on!" Apparently his survival instinct kicks in, because he lets her lead him towards the building, Clarke not far behind them.

Bellamy has to grab onto the railing at one point, his eyes squeezed shut. "Hey, I got you," Luna soothes, glancing over at the blonde behind them only briefly, as she wraps her arm around his waist and forces him to move further up. _You're my family._ "I got you."

They run up as many steps as possible, and luckily the flood stops rising a few levels below them. Cooper jams a needle into Bellamy's neck while they're still catching their breaths, even though Luna is protesting and is left to guide his body to the floor when he slowly slumps over.

"The Gamemakers are still putting on quite the show," Raven bites, hands on her knees, chest heaving heavily up and down, Wells' hand in between her shoulder blades comfortingly. She hisses as she straightens back up. Running must not be good on her leg. "If the Peacekeepers didn't know where we were, they do now. Those surveillance cameras definitely caught us."

Cooper seems to agree, pulling away the curtain in front of a window and observing the courtyard. "This is a bad spot. We need to move right away. Can you try and contact base?"

Raven nods, pulling out the radio, tinkering with the buttons. Monty offers Clarke a sip of his water while they wait, but she waves him off with a 'no thanks'. The mechanic curses under her breath as the device only produces static. "I can't get a damn signal."

Cooper closes the curtain abruptly, turning back to the rest of them. "I can get us back to base, I know the way."

"We can't go back to base, you know that right?" Clarke finds her voice, deathgrip on her rifle turning her knuckles white. They can't give up now, now that they came this far. Now that they've lost Shaw, and they've lost Scott. They can't just be two more meaningless deaths in the name of war.

"There's at least a hundred peacekeepers on their way here," Old Colton reasons, crouched on the floor beside his son and tending to his leg. It makes sense. They're high targets, that's what Shaw said. Surely, Wallace wouldn't let another chance to get rid of her go to waste. They shouldn't be wasting time arguing about their destination, they should just get away from here.

Wells rests his hands on his hips, shrugging lightly, gaze fixed on a wall in front of him pensively. "If me move now we won't leave any footprints." The thick black mass will prevent it. Raven latches onto that with an, "And the cameras should be covered by the oil as well."

"Peter can't move forward like this. His leg is too bad. We have to evacuate him," Old Colton reasons, while his younger counterpart tries to adjust his lower limb with both hands, hissing. He's pale, sweat trailing down his temples. He's obviously in a lot of pain.

Cooper nods at her team member, adjusting the band of her rifle on her shoulder. "As soon as we make contact with base, we will send somebody back. I promise." Both Coltons nod, the older one offering her a grateful, close-lipped smile. "Alright everyone. Move out."

Luna takes Bellamy by the chin, makes him look at her. It's like he can't even see her, like he's seeing right through her. Sedating him every five minutes probably isn't helping his mental state. "Wells, can you carry him? I don't think he can walk."

Clarke's best friend nods, and lifts Bellamy's lethargic form over his shoulder. Wells is strong, but it isn't without some difficulty. At least Bellamy doesn't protest, the sedative making him apathetic.

Clarke wishes she could do more, say more, be there for him. But she's still dazed after what happened, after watching Shaw die, after Bellamy just tried to hurt her again, after he did hurt Scott. It's easier to shut everything off, shut that part off, leave him to Luna. She has other things to focus on.

They make it downstairs, making their way across the courtyard just in time to see at least three trucks full of Peacekeepers pull up in front of the arch. Quickly, Squad 100 ducks into the nearest building, a standard Polis apartment complex. The Peacekeepers march over to the building their unit was last spotted in, and start firing at it. Both Coltons fire back, but it's no use when the capital army pull out bazooka. The construction collapses in on itself almost immediately, and Clarke's squeezes her eyes shut and presses her nails into the palms of her hands until that's all she can feel. Two more names to add to the list. Two more names of people who sacrificed themselves on behalf of her, in the name of the Rebellion.

They're all silent for a long time, hours, quietly mourning the loss of their team members, until a television screen in the living room lights up automatically. It's one of the more developed televisions, a circular holographic stream in the middle of the room that allows everyone from each position to see the exact same image. The image of Cage Wallace.

"Here with our continuing coverage of the defense of the capitol. Today, as our peacekeepers valiantly hold off the rebels, our story takes a surprising twist."

They show Squad 100 walking around the abandoned streets of Polis, shooting their propaganda footage. An eerie song plays in the background, one she recognizes from when she used to watch the Games with her mother.

"Clarke Griffin, our once favorite tribute, has infiltrated the city with some of the Victors, whose names are all too familiar," Cage presses, grave, even though the corners of his lips are turned up into one of his secretive sneers. _Some of them_. They executed everyone else they could get their hands on. "Luna Murchadh and Bellamy Blake." An image of Luna supporting Bellamy with her arm around him while they run up the steps flashes across the screen, then. Clarke can already feel what's coming up before they show it, hairs on the back of her neck standing up straight. Next, they show security camera footage of Bellamy tackling Clarke to the ground and trying to—"Clearly, some alliances don't last forever."

The only reason their alliance is showing cracks is because of _them_ , because of Cage's father. Clarke's entire body stiffens, hands stilling on top of her thighs and she doesn't dare look over at where Bellamy is on a couch in between Miller and Luna. The medicine must be wearing off by now and she isn't ready to face him yet, even if he is back to himself.

"Whatever arrogance brought this so-called Mockingjay back to us," Cage bites, hatefully, then forces a calm smirk onto his face. "You are about to witness a great victory, not only for Polis, but for Panem."

They show footage of their squad running into a building, the next shot of the Peacekeepers bombing it and it caving in. It's clear there's no way anyone made it out alive. It's clear they're supposed to be dead. Maybe it's a blessing in disguise.

Cage ends his broadcast with his eyes crinkled with happiness, "So there you have it. Clarke Griffin, the girl on fire, a girl who inspired so much violence, the commander of death, seems to have met a violent end herself."

Once they've all taken out some provisions, Wells—perched on top of the armrest of the couch Clarke is sitting on—is brave enough to break the next heavy silence. "So now that we're dead, what are we going to do?"

Cooper sighs heavily, twisting the cap back on top of her canteen. She lifts her shoulders in an unsure gesture, probably still conflicted between her orders and common sense.

"Isn't it obvious? The next move is to kill me," Bellamy argues, darkly, and even if she isn't ready to look at him, she has to. He's leaning forward with his elbows on his knees, hands clasped together in the middle. His shoulders are sagged, resigned. She recognizes that same similar glint of self-resentment and alienation in his eyes she saw for the first time when he called himself a monster. "I murdered one of our squad members. Clarke is right. I'm a mutt." He heard that? "And it's only a matter of time before I snap again. I'm not in control." He's not wrong. Clarke can only stare at him, stupid, heart rattling in her chest, feeling hot one second and cold the next. He wants to die. "I need a nightlock pill, so I can die when I need to."

"If it gets to that point, I'll kill you myself," Cooper decides, firm and dismissive, but it's obvious she just doesn't trust him with it. It reminds her of the Games, how they never got to choose how or when they died. Not if it didn't bring them enough spectacle, enough reason for others to comply.

Their discussion is cut short when the screen flickers again, the familiar Polis logo flashing across of it. This time, it's actually Dante Wallace. He looks pristine as always, not a hair out of place, not allowing anyone to see him bleed, not even if the rebels have a gun pressed to his head, or a knife to his throat. "So Clarke Griffin, poor unstable girl with nothing but a misplaced sense of compassion is dead."

It's actually kind of funny? Isn't it? How she'd wanted nothing more but to die, all this time, and now Wallace—out of all people—he's given her a reason not to. He's given her a reason not to give up until she can get out her bow and fire an arrow into his head.

"Not a thinker, nor a leader," he continues, nonchalant. "Simply a face plucked from the masses." He shrugs, pursing his lips. "Was she valuable? She was extremely valuable to your rebellion because you have no vision, no true leader among you. You call yourselves an alliance, but we saw what that means." He laughs, actually laughs, leaning back into his chair, flinging a hand like it's not even worth his time to be addressing them, not when, "Your soldiers are at each other's throats."

Who's fault is that?

"How are we supposed to take a rebellion like—" His face cracks, the words sounding distorted, and then there's Diyoza, with her signature ponytail, two strands framing her face. "Good evening. For those of you who aren't familiar with me, allow me to introduce myself. I am President Charmaine Diyoza, leader of the rebellion. I have interrupted a broadcast from your president in which he attempted to defame a brave young woman."

Most of them angle their bodies closer towards the screen, opposed to as far away as possible, happy to see a familiar face. Clarke wishes she felt the same, she really does. She really wished she could just blindly trust this woman, who's given her nothing but reasons to do so.

"'A face plucked from the masses,' he called her," Diyoza lets out a small chuckle, arms behind her back, then her face hardens back up. "As if a leader—a true leader—could be anything else." An image of Clarke appears in the top right-hand corner, one they took of her for promotional material. Her hair was still longer back then, in it's trademark braid. Maybe they digitally altered that, she doesn't remember. Time is kind of hazy on her, nowadays. "I had the privilege of knowing a small-town girl from district twelve who survived the Hunger Games and the Quarter Quell and rose up and turned a nation of slaves into an army." She sniffs all of a sudden, a finger coming up to dab at the corner of her eyes. She apologizes, accepts a tissue from someone off screen and then clears her throat, turning back to address the camera directly. "Dead or alive, Clarke Griffin will remain the face of this revolution. She will not have died for nothing."

"I had no idea I meant so much to her," Clarke notes, bitterly as picks at the bread roll in her lap. She'd never been that impressed with her in real life. Always reminding her she was expendable. She was a good actress.

"He's in his mansion," Bellamy remarks, absently, pulling everyone's attention back to him.

"Where's that?" Clarke sits up, curious, looking at the holo propped up on Raven's lap. It doesn't escape her that it's the first time she's addressed him directly since she walked out on him. Again. How is he supposed to trust her? How is he supposed to depend on her? She can't even say three sentences to him without bailing because she's such a mess.

Raven explains that he's in the city circle, at least 70 to 75 blocks away. Nobody knows they're alive, so it'll be their best chance going all the way over there. The brunette looks her straight in the eye, unaffected. "That is why you came here, isn't it?"

Was she that transparent? Had she gotten that bad at hiding her motives? She doesn't have to answer. Most of them already seemed to know it anyway.

"Whether they're looking for us or not, we are pinned down," Cooper remarks, ordering Raven to push a button on her holo. It scans for pods, showing about one every ten steps, the entire map lighting up.

"Yeah," Raven declares, dry and cynical. "That doesn't even show the new ones."

"So we can't go anywhere in the streets," Clarke concludes, racking her brains for options.

As if reading her mind, Raven agrees, "No. And the rooftops are just as bad."

Miller clears his throat, arms crossed over his chest. "There might be another way." He nods his head over to Monty, beside him. "Green knows the tunnels really well. He worked sanitation down there, right after they made him an avox."

Monty smiles, close-lipped, and Harper squeezes his hand, her other hand in Monroe's. They're all really close, even to Miller, who still seems like he would rather be anywhere else. Clarke doesn't know them as well as she would like to, she guesses, but they have their stories, their relationships, their goals and purposes and hopes and dreams. They're people. Like the kind of people who need her help, who she is doing this for. Her people. It's why they can't give up now.

Almost hopefully, Clarke looks over at Cooper, whose jaw flexes as she shakes her head to herself. Then, she surprises her. "Guess we'll be going underground."

* * *

Monty looks absolutely terrible from the second they touch the sewer water, up to their ankles. He's pale, paler than usual, his hair sticking to his skin from sweat. Clarke guesses they each have their traumas. The rest of them wait a little behind as Harper goes up to him, pulling on his hand. "Hey. Hey. You gonna be okay?" She cups his face, gently, making him look at her. "Look at me. We're gonna get through this. I promise."

After a few beats, like her words were taking a longer time to be processed, he nods, and Harper assures him a few other private things under her breath. Beside Clarke, Miller shakes his head, brow creased together. It's the most of a facial expression she's seen him take since she met him. "Took us five years to buy his way out of here. He didn't see the sun once."

 _Five years_. Five years, and she's never once seen him look anything but happy. Easy. Strong.

After a while of Monty leading them through the tunnels, Cooper decides they should get some rest. It's been hours, and it's hard to tell from down here, but it must be the middle of the night by now and they're all tired. Their sound engineer leads them to a metal platform between tunnels that's dry and gives them a good view of both exits.

"Just tuck in there," Luna instructs Bellamy, pointing at a corner besides the steps leading back into one of the tunnels before helping him sit down, since his hands were tied back together again. She's been by his side the entire time, making sure he wouldn't— _lose control_ again.

Clarke sinks down onto the ground across from Luna, and she must be more tired than she realizes because she blinks and then all of a sudden Wells is nudging her, telling her to wake up. "Clarke. Your watch."

She nods, dazed from sleep, sitting up in a more active stance. Wells sighs, probably relieved he finally gets to close his eyes. She rests the rifle in her lap at one point, then looks across at Luna, and aside to—to find Bellamy already looking at her. It startles her for a second, not expecting anyone to be awake at this point.

"Can't sleep," he mumbles, as an answer to her stunned reaction, fidgeting with the cuffs around his wrists a little. Usually, she can't either. She's slept with him a hundred times and he always helped her sleep. Now, most of the time, he's the one keeping her up.

Clarke nods, solemnly, figuring it's better not to drag up the past unless he asks about it. "My mom always told me to slay my demons while I was awake." She knows. He's told her the story before. In the dark of the night, her head pressed to his chest, heartbeat steady under her ear. _Slay your demons when you're awake, so they can't get to you in your sleep._ She doesn't say anything, because it seems like a reinforcement for himself more than anything.

Bellamy frowns, blinking heavily a few times, gaze fixated on Clarke's hands, on top of the rifle in her lap. "You know, Polis, they used trackerjacker venom on me. That's what the healers in thirteen said." He pauses, hesitant, then continues, "You were stung once, too. Real or not real?"

"Real," she confirms, not taking her eyes off his face, lit only by the dim emergency exit lighting. She remembers it clearly. The hallucinations, the night terrors that followed during the days she was knocked out—they were one of the worst things she's ever experienced. Clarke can only imagine what getting injected daily would do to a person.

"When they used the venom on me, they would show me pictures of my life. My mom, Octavia, you." Clarke's chest feels too tight, too small for her beating heart. His life. His mom, Octavia, her. His family. He smiles, faint and absentmindedly, maybe even a little nostalgic, but then it disappears. "But some weren't real. They changed them." He clears his throat, trying to steady his voice. "At first, they all… They all blurred together. But now…" He lifts his head, finally making eye-contact with her again, knocking the breath out of her for just a second. His voice is no longer filled with doubt, squinting his eyes together in thought just slightly. "Now I can sort them out a little. Like the ones that they changed, they have this quality—it's like they're shiny. Glossed over."

Polis manufactured memories. Figures them being too picture perfect would give it away.

He's doing the worst thing he could do. Give her hope. She swallows, thick, tightening her grip on her rifle, then tells him, "You should get some rest."

Quietly, he asks, "You're still trying to protect me. Real or not real?"

"Real," she admits, hoarse, after a beat, and his gaze is too strong to break away from it, even if there's nothing she'd rather do. It's like she's hypnotized—like it's magnetic. "That's what you and I do. Keep each other alive."

Her eyes finally dart over to the side, when he speaks again, "Is that all we do?" It's an innocent question on his behalf, probably, just trying to figure out who they are to each other, if his image matches hers or if they're more Polis lies. But, once upon a time, she told him _life should be about more than just surviving_ and she can't help but wonder if he's thinking about that. She's still worrying about how to answer his question, when she looks up to find him staring out into the distance, squinting his eyes at the tunnel farthest away from them. "Clarke. What's that?"

She turns her head, and blindly reaches for her flashlight on the ground beside her, pointing it at the the cylinder shaped hole just in time to see something dark slither through the water like he's looking for something, two beady red eyes lighting up in the dark. Without thinking, she exclaims, "We gotta go!"

Luna is already up in a crouch, one hand on the railing, telling her to keep her voice down. Cooper curses quietly, pushing her hair back from her face, "Mutts, they released mutts."

"Monty, what's the fastest way out?" Miller asks his friend, grabbing a hold of his shoulder. Their sound engineer leads them down the stairs back into a tunnel, the water cold to the touch, turning back around to press a finger to his lips, signaling them to be quiet.

It's hard to make anything out in the darkness, everyone erratically pointing their flashlights into different directions, changing angles every few seconds, too on edge to think and act rationally. They make it to a small horizontal passageway, leading to a different set of tunnels. Monty helps Harper squeeze through it, before going through it himself so he can help them out on the other side.

Luna and Bellamy go through next, then Clarke follows, Miller not far behind. Wells boosts up Raven so she can climb into it, then needs help from Monty and Miller to be pulled out himself. Raven holds up a flashlight so Monty can reach his hand through to help Monroe next, but just as she takes a hold of his fingers, Cooper yells out a ' _holy shit_ '.

One of the mutts, sharp-toothed and reptile-like, tackles her and it's happening too fast to really see, because Monroe is crying, grabbing desperately at Monty's fingers, but she's slipping from the wetness and she's reaching out and begging, "Please, please—hurry up!" Wells is reaching through now as well, along with Miller but as soon as they start lifting Monroe, she's pulled back into the water with an unexplainable force, screams unbearable.

Raven shines her flashlight through the crack in the wall, only to drop it into the water out of shock and take a hasty step back when it reveals hundreds of the mutts, all trying to get a piece of Cooper and Monroe.

"Fall back!" Wells yells, pushing Monty away from the entry way as he takes out a grenade. It's too late for Cooper and Monroe. He waits for Monty to steer the rest of them away before he throws it through the passageway.

They run for what seems like hours but can only be minutes, through a maze of tunnels, with the mutts right on their heels. At one point, most of them get separated when Clarke has to kneel down and get out her bow to fire a red arrow at a horde of mutts coming from their left. On the other side of the mass of mutts are Wells, Luna, Raven and Bellamy.

She waits, hopes for them to emerge from behind the wall of burning mutts, but Miller pulls on her arm after a moment, ordering her to come along. They reach a crossroad of tunnels after not too long, and Clarke is already ready to protest because the others will never find their way out if they just leave, but Monty points to the ceiling. There's three platforms, a fire escape ladder hanging from the back wall on the top one. He helps Harper up onto the first floor, then Miller, and then he lifts himself up. One mutt comes out of nowhere and tries to grab onto the sound engineer's ankle, but Miller shoots him with his handgun and then kicks him off the ledge.

Clarke waits, with her back to the platforms, while they clamber ahead up the stairs. They can't all be dead. She refuses to believe that. She has to give them some time, to reach the intersection. Who knows what they ran into on the way. She has to give them a little more. "Come on, Clarke," Miller calls out for her, ducking his head down to look through the opening of the access hatch as he holds up the door.

"Just a minute," she exclaims, adjusting her grip on her bow as she looks back at the different tunnels, eyes darting between them, heart hammering in her chest. This can't be it. This can't be how she loses all of them. Miller commands her to come up after another thirty seconds pass, and he must think she's insane but she doesn't care. She waits another ten and then she's about to climb up on the first level when—

"Up there," Clarke yells, hoisting Raven up the first platform when she comes hobbling out of one of the tunnels. Then, like luck is finally on her side and their timing is impeccable, Wells rushes in from a different tunnel she came from, pushing one of the mutts off his body and knocking it into a nearby wall before shooting it in its head with his fire weapon. He passes them not much later, hopping onto the second platform in no time and helping them next. They go on to the final one, but Clarke pauses. She has to give them one more minute. Just one more minute. One more minute and she'll go up.

She fires off an arrow into a mutt trying to climb onto the first level, and another one storming out of a tunnel, and has to fire them in an exponentially quicker succession, coming from everywhere all at once. Her breath hitches in the back of her throat as she lies her eyes on Bellamy, who comes sprinting from one of the tunnels. But, one minute, she's looking at Bellamy crawling onto the first level and encouraging him, and the next she's on the ground floor in the water, a reptile mutt on top of her.

It's skin is cold as she tries to see through the water getting in her eyes, tries to gulp down a breath of air but it's hard when the creature's so heavy on top of her and trying to claw the skin of her neck. She manages to kick it away, fumbling for her bow in the water before drawing it just in time to shoot another one who's launching for her. She hisses as another one lodges it's teeth into her shoulder, and she has to manually jam an arrow into the side of it's head to get it to stop.

Before she knows it, she's watching Bellamy jump back down the second platform to come help her and she tells him, "Bellamy, stop! No! Keep climbing!" but then a mutt pulls on his ankles, and his head hits the floor with a loud thud. The mutt climbs on top of him, and they struggle, before rolling off the ledge and into the water. She's trying to get to him, trying to crawl through the water and over the lifeless forms over to where he is, but the mutts keep coming and she has to keep firing her arrows to keep them from grabbing onto her.

The mutt holds him under the water for a long time and when he resurfaces he barely manages to take a gulp of air before the creature has him back under. Clarke aims her arrow, and shoots it into the mutt's head. Finally, she manages to clamber to his side, pushing the monster of him so he can surface. He gasps loudly, choking as she helps him onto his feet.

"Start climbing, and don't stop, okay? Whatever you do, whatever happens to me, keep going, okay?" She urges him, hands on his shoulders, but he just stares at her, dumbly, wet hair falling into his eyes, liquid dripping down his skin. She shakes him a little, desperate, because she needs him to be safe. He can't zone out on her right now. "Please. Promise me."

He reaches for the knife strapped to her thigh, and for one second she's worried he's going to use it on her, but then he pushes her aside. She rises back from the water just in time to see him stab a mutt into his temple. "Thanks," she pants as he offers her a hand to help her up, knowing that without him, she would've died right there. There's the hint of a smile on his face, as he presses the knife back into her hand, "That's what you and I do, right, princess?"

She nods, dazed, barely having time to register the ' _princess_ ' before he jogs away and lifts himself onto the first platform. She fires another red arrow into one of the tunnels when an entire football team emerges from it, effectively blowing them to pieces. She kicks another off her torso on the way to the first level, then gets on top of it.

"Clarke," someone yells from behind her, "Duck!"

 _Luna_. Clarke immediately bends down into a crouch, just in time to avoid Luna's axe flying into one of the mutts. She turns on her heels, helping her up, but there's even more coming from every which direction, so as soon as they're ready to climb the second platform, they're practically surrounded. Luna retrieves her axe from the mutt's dead body, and Clarke draws an arrow as they start fighting them off, creating a pathway up the final platform.

Luna starts clambering up the stairs first, Clarke not far behind. Then, the blonde is grabbed by the ankle, being dragged down. She tries to resist, tries to kick them away, tries to hold on, but the bars are slippery and it only takes one more pull before she's knocked back onto the platform, the breath out of her lungs along with it. She winces, vision turning black as a sharp pain spreads from the back of her head to the rest of her body.

Someone tries to shoot some mutts from above, tries to cover them, but there's too many. She opens her eyes to find Luna climbing back down instead, and she tries to force out a, "No. Go on," but Luna is already swinging her axe around and kicking mutts back down to the tunnels. The brunette helps Clarke sit up, then takes an arrow from Clarke's quiver and stabs another incoming mutt in the eye, before pushing the blonde onto her feet and towards the stairs. "Go!" Luna yells, staying back to fight the mutts off, even though they keep coming and coming.

She manages to reach the stairs, and Clarke slows down as they start pulling on Luna's feet, and tries to reach down to grab her hand or her shoulder or anything but it's no use. Luna is dragged down to the stairs, knocked into the ledge of the final flatform, rolls off the second and then dragged into the water by the mutts. Clarke is still screaming her name when the axe bounces to a halt on the first platform with a loud bang, out of Luna's reach.

Wells heaves her up the last few steps through the access hatch but she can't stop looking. Luna manages to fight a few off, but for every single mutt she kills or kicks away, double the amount emerge out of nowhere, pouncing on her, clawing at her, pushing her under the water.

Clarke sits back on her heels, hand on the door of the hatch and Raven swallows tightly, beside her, putting a hand on top of her shoulder to draw her attention to the object in her other hand. The holo. Raven looks at her sadly, and Clarke takes it with a shaking hand. She's right. Luna—the girl who saved her life countless times, who sacrificed who she was and what she believed in to help her when she's given her barely anything in return, who was always kind and non-judgemental and compassionate—she's already gone.

"Nightlock," she croaks out, fat tears dripping down her eyes, dripping down her cheeks, dripping down her chin, "Nightlock. Nightlock," then lets go off the holo. Wells pulls her back so the hatch door drops closed just in time to withhold the explosion caused by the holo. When she looks down at her hand, Luna's necklace is inside of it.

"Come on, let's keep moving."

Monty leads them to some kind of abandoned hall with pillars criss-crossed across it, it has two exits. One to the left, leading up to a pair of escalators, and another far to the right, almost identical to the other exit. Since Peacekeepers come running down the escalators on the left, they start sprinting into the opposite direction, bullets flying around their heads.

She's running beside Harper when a pod is set off, sharp spikes rising from the ground and chasing them, leaving the floor in shambles as they pass it, blowing a wall of mist in front of it. The tattooed blonde is a lot faster than Clarke, so she grabs onto her hand to pull her along.

Raven stumbles at one point and crashes down, and Wells starts circling back around, even though the brunette's shaking her head, waving her arms and telling him to, "Just leave—". Yet, Miller is already covering them from the Peacekeepers while Wells pulls her back up just in time before she gets shredded by the spikes. "Don't even say it, Reyes."

She's coughing while he pulls her to her feet, probably exposed to the fog too long—the mist must mostly be dust from the ground breaking up—but other than that seems mostly unaffected by the pod so far. Wells lifts her onto his back to mild protests from the brunette, anyway, because he's faster carrying her than he is pulling her along.

Clarke keeps running behind them, to make sure everyone gets over it, to make sure Wells can carry Raven by himself, to make sure they get somewhere safe. There's a flicker of light up ahead.

An upcoming heightened threshold indicates the end of this particular pod and Harper speeds ahead, losing grip on her hand when the victor stumbles a little on her own feet. Clarke throws herself forward over the threshold at the same time as Bellamy, both of them sliding across the floor just as the spikes reach the invisible wall behind them and explode against it.

She quickly scrambles to her feet—not even bothering to look at her scraped palms, not even bothering to try and catch her breath, not even bothering to give a second thought to the throbbing in her knee—starting to try and catch up with the others, already waiting at the escalators fifty feet ahead. She has to get to them. She has to get to them and they have to find a way. Find a way to get to Wallace.

"Bellamy, come on," she asserts, when he isn't at her side fast enough, voice trailing off as she looks over her shoulder to see what the hell is taking him so long. She slows down her pace when she sees he's not moving.

"Bellamy," she exclaims, jogging back over to him. He's still on the floor on his knees, hands covering his ears as he leans his forehead on the ground. There's a few drops of blood dripping down his palms into his jacket at the wrist. His posture is completely rigid, rocking back and forth slightly. When she's close enough, she can make out the words he's repeating back to himself.

"I'm a monster. I can't keep control."

"Stop," she tells him, falling down on her knees next to him without any hesitation. _I'm a monster._ She pulls at his hands, tries to get them away from his face. _I can't keep control_. "Yes, you can!" He just saved her, risking his own life for it. Again. Like he will keep doing for the rest of their fucking lives without even thinking twice. That's who he is. He still remembers. He still cares. Everything he's done down here proves that.

"Look at me," she demands, not caring she sounds like a complete wreck, managing to finally pry his hands away from his face. His eyes are red, rimmed with tears, erratically searching his hands while they're being held by hers. He still doesn't understand.

"Leave me," he rasps, commanding, finally lifting his head to meet her eyes, briefly, before they're back darting around, like he has as much grip on them as he has on his thoughts. There's no fucking way. No fucking way she's leaving him here.

"Look at me," she demands, hands moving up to bracket his face and keep it into place. They don't have much longer before the Peacekeepers catch up with them and it's over. It can't be over. She knows he doesn't want it to be over either. Not like this. "Look at me. I'm not leaving you here, okay?" She's not leaving another single person behind. Especially not him. Not again. Not ever. "I'm not leaving you behind." He still avoids her gaze, and she's not sure she's getting through to him. She wipes at his tears with her thumbs and then makes up her mind.

She pulls him closer to her, pushes forward the last few inches, and then presses her mouth to his, hard. Maybe it's a mistake, maybe it'll backfire, but she just knows she has to do this. Has to get through to him somehow, has to show him how much she—how much she cares. There's no fireworks, or crazy butterflies, just a slow steady fire, keeping her warm on a hard winter's day. When she pulls away she looks him straight in the eye, hands slipping down to his shoulders, but grip still unrelenting. Her eyes rake his face, lips still tingling from touching his. "It's you and me, remember?" Her tongue darts out to wet her lips, resolute, "Together."

He nods, dazed, adam's apple bobbing up and down heavily, before nodding more firmly, voice rough as he presses, grounded, "Together." She mirrors the gesture—an unspoken understanding because it's no longer just a word—and then he lets her pull him to his feet.

"Come on," she encourages, squeezing his hand as she starts sprinting towards the others. As soon as they climb the escalators and reach the surface, Harper recognizes their surroundings and leads them to a place not too far away. Just a few blocks, she promises, squinting at the sudden sunlight. There won't be any pods here, because the area was only evacuated hours ago, too close to the city centre.

A few blocks and they're safe. Safe.

Except, with each block they pass, Raven's condition worsens. She's coughing, and then she's struggling in Wells' arms, screaming for him to let him go, sweat covering her skin, hair plastered to the back of her neck, muttering indecipherable words under her breath, eyes rolling into the back of her head.

They make it to the apartment complex Harper had them headed to, and Miller clears the nearest surface—a kitchen table, cutlery and plates clattering to the floor—so Wells can lay Raven on top of it. Clarke checks her pulse, it's crazy high, and puts a hand to her forehead, feels way too warm.

"It must have been the mist," she reasons, smoothing some hair back from Raven's face, racking her brain for answers, for options, too. "Maybe there was something—"

Clarke is suddenly smacked backwards, onto the floor, hissing as she grabs a hold of the back of her neck. Raven rose into a sitting position, eyes fixed straight ahead. Wells immediately appears at the mechanic's side, trying to calm her down but then she starts pushing at him, clawing at his face, screaming at the top of her lungs, "I'm going to kill you, I'm going to kill all of you!"

"Miller," Clarke commands, waving him over quickly as she makes her way back over to Raven's side, her head taking over, "Help Wells keep her down. Harper can you find some restraints? She's going to hurt herself like this. Monty can you find some ice, something cold, anything? We have to get her body temperature down."

"It's enhanced trackerjacker venom," Bellamy hypothesizes loudly from beside her as he holds Raven's legs down, her whole body fighting against the three men. His shoulders are tense, probably because of the memories. Of what they did to him. "She's hallucinating."

Clarke nods, then quickly kneels down besides Raven's backpack and gets out one of the tranquilizers. It makes sense, the sudden hostility, the muscle spasms, her pulse and temperature—her body is trying to fight off the venom. Wallace is still trying to get other people to do his dirty work for him, trying to get Raven kill her own people.

Clarke injects the sedative into Raven's arm, letting out a sigh of relief as her whole body sags, muscles relaxing as she stops struggling. Clarke wipes some sweat of her own forehead with the back of her hand, before leaning on the table and letting out a loud exhale. "We need to get her temperature down, which the ice will do, and then her body will do the rest. She just needs time. Let's just rotate watch every hour and keep an eye on her, okay?"

Wells takes first watch, the rest of them making their way upstairs to one of the livingrooms so Raven won't be bothered by them or any unconscious stimulus. Wells refuses to let Miller take watch from him after first watch passes, and when he also sends Harper back up an hour after that, Clarke goes down herself.

She presses her hand between his shoulder blades from where he's sitting on a stool beside the table. He's propped Raven's head up on one of the couch cushions and is clasping her hand in his. Quietly, she urges, "Hey. Get some rest, okay? You've been at it for hours and even before that, you hardly got half an hour of sleep."

"Clarke, I can't leave her," he argues, stern, not taking his eyes off Raven's face. It's still covered in sweat, but her chest is rising with slower breaths than before, and her cheeks are looking less red.

"You aren't," Clarke counters, adamant, "I'll be here." His head shifts to look at her, his eyes red and his cheeks wet, and she knows he's going to protest because she would, too. If it was Bellamy. And that's what this is, right? Wells doesn't just care about her, he _loves_ her. "Besides," she beats him to it, squeezing his shoulder, as she pointedly looks at the dried-up blood on Raven's temple. "If you leave I can take a look at that cut on her head."

He takes another long hard look at her, then finally nods, giving in. She knew he would agree if she could convince him it was better for Raven. He wipes his hands on his thighs, then leans down to press a kiss to Raven's forehead, promising her he'll be back.

"Hey," Clarke tugs on his hand just as he is about to leave, "She'll be okay, you know that, right?"

"I know," he promises, the corners of his lips slightly turned up, reminiscent maybe. "She's strong."

Clarke fills up a salad bowl with water and wets a dish towel to press to Raven's head. She cleans up the blood carefully, and makes sure she doesn't need stitches before deciding it's best to let it air dry instead of covering it up with a makeshift bandage. Once she's cleaning up the last of the blood, trying to scrub it out of her hair, Raven starts blinking her eyes open, squinting at the dim lighting. Clarke smiles, careful, but relieved. "Welcome back sunshine."

"Thank you," she whispers soft, trying to bring up a hand but failing to so because of the restraints around her wrists. She groans, shifting her head to get a better look at Clarke. Something hard washes over her face, something indecipherable. "Do you ever see their faces?"

Clarke's forehead creases in confusion, hands freezing mid-air, about to take off the rope Harper bound around her limbs. Her eyes rake Raven's face, corners of her lips still turned up slightly, trying not to startle her too much, or scare her off, in case she's still in the middle of a hallucination. "What?"

"Of all the people you've killed," she presses, matter-of-factly, shaking her head lightly, but always keeping her eyes straight on Clarke's. A lazy smirk slowly spreads across her bronze face.

The blonde lets out a small surprised, disbelieving chuckle, even though her heart is hammering in her chest, dread building up in her lower belly. "This isn't you, Raven, you're just hallucinating. I know it might feel real, but it's—"

"This isn't a hallucination, Clarke," she disputes calmly, tilting her head slightly, dead-serious. "This is _me_."

Clarke shakes her head, opens her mouth to try and get her to stop, but Raven keeps at it, "I'm just trying to tell you the truth because no one else will. You're their Mockingjay. It's everybody's job to keep you alive." She huffs, humoured and the blonde squeezes her eyes shut to dry and drown out the hateful tone in her voice. This isn't Raven. It isn't. But they didn't alter her memories, they're not controlling her. These are _her_ words. "Everywhere you go, death follows."

Clarke in- and exhales loudly, trying not to let Raven's words get to her, but she's right. She's right. Finn. Lexa. Even Bellamy. She let them get close to her, and now? Two of them are gone, one of them is damaged beyond repair. Because of her. Always her.

"You always want to save everyone, but what you don't realize is you're the one who we need saving from." Clarke presses her nails into her thighs, tries to focus on that pain instead of the other hurt she's feeling. "Madi is dead because she stepped on a mine that was meant for _you_. Finn is dead because you broke his heart and then slid a knife into it after he gave his life for yours. Lexa is dead because _you_ pissed off President Wallace." She chuckles, low, shaking her head lightly. "Hell, Luna is dead because you're only good at picking fights, not fighting them."

"Shut up," Clarke snaps, when she can't push away the images any longer. Madi. Sweet, innocent Madi and her beautiful blue eyes and how they lit up when she smiled, how clammy her hand felt in hers. Finn. His long hair always falling into his eyes, his unparalleled braveness, that backpack he got from the cornucopia for them. Lexa. The kisses they shared during their nights together, how soft her skin felt under Clarke's touch, the taste of pears. Luna. Who she couldn't save, even if she saved her a thousand times before in more ways than just physical. God, Luna. The pendant seems to be burning a hole on her collarbone right about now.

"And then there's good old Bellamy—" She smirks, vicious, like she knows she has Clarke right where she wants to. Like she means it, too.

Clarke gets off the stool, and it clatters onto the floor, breaking her off, "I said _shut up_!" She can't let her finish that goddamn sentence. Not right now. She might actually do something to her.

Raven ignores her, pulls on her restraints even if they won't budge, the ropes digging harsly into her skin, making sickening sounds. "You keep saying you didn't want to leave him behind, but guess you didn't try hard enough not to."

She echoes herself, hands in her hair, "Shut up!" because she can't bring herself to say anything else, her voice shaking too much. Hands balling into fists at her sides. She has to remind herself this isn't Raven, it can't be. She's only saying these things because she knows they'll hurt her, make her snap, make her do something that'll get one of them killed. She doesn't mean it. She doesn't.

Raven's smirk only widens, eyebrows furrowed together in amusement. "You can hide behind the selfless martyr act all you want, but I can see you for who you _really_ are." Her face hardens, her eyes darken, gritting her teeth together. "Poison, to _anyone_ who gets close."

Clarke picks up the cloth she used on her cuts and tries to stuff it into her mouth, but Raven sinks her teeth into her skin, the blonde hissing out in pain as she yanks her hand back. She laughs, blood dripping down her chin. "The commander of—"

"Shut up!" She yells, pressing her palms to her temples, trying to make it stop, trying to make the images stop, the images accompanying Raven's voiceover. Suddenly something warm and solid is colliding with her back, pulling her back towards the stairs. She can just make out Wells coming up beside Raven to give her another sedative, can just see through the angered tears.

He puts her down on top of the stairs, and she knew it was Bellamy, but she turns to confirm it anyway. "It's just the venom," he promises, automatically reaching out to push back a strand of hair from her face. His eyes looks cloudy, his posture tense. "You will try and say anything to make it stop. To make the pain stop. She was trying to get you—"

"To kill her?" She cuts him off, heated, even though it's not his fault. She doesn't want to think about how she nearly succeeded. Clarke was a sentence away from breaking down.

"Yeah," he admits, soft, rubbing the back of his neck, then nods to the side. "Come on, let's get something to eat."

She immediately feels bad, because he went through that, he's speaking from experience. He probably wanted to die everyday, there in Wallace's mansion, or wherever they kept him. But if Bellamy resents her for it, he doesn't show. He tells her Wells only gave Raven one-third of the tranquillizer since it's the last one they have left and they might need it again. He gets some soup from Miller and has her eat it.

"Wells should eat something," Clarke states, absently, after a while, once she's finished hers. Harper and Monty are asleep on one of the couches, Miller barely awake on the ground below them, "I'll go bring him something."

"I'll come with," Bellamy says, brushing off his hands on the back of his legs after he stands up. His eyes dart over to Miller briefly. He doesn't say anything. "You can keep an eye on me, right?"

She nods, just thankful she doesn't have to go down there alone. When they reach the last step of the stairs, he stops her, taking the bowl from her. "I'll just bring it to him, okay? I'll just be a second."

She breathes out a relieved 'okay', swallowing thickly, as she takes a hold of the stair railing. She can't lie and say she'd rather go in there. She leans her head back onto the wall, and closes her eyes.

They spring open at the sound of Raven's voice. Cheerful, almost. "Bellamy. I'm surprised they let you down here. Considering the state you're in."

"Yeah, well I'm not the only one getting tied up on a regular basis anymore, huh?" He bites back, even if he does sound relatively unaffected. He must hand the soup over to Wells because he mutters something low under his breath.

"Before you leave," Raven taunts him, melodic, "I just have one question for you."

"Raven," Wells warns her, and Clarke doesn't even want to imagine the things she's holding against him. Te things she's telling Wells. They seem close, closer than—than just friends. Than just love.

The girl ignores him though, voice innocent as she asks, "Does it bother you?" Then it gains a sharper edge, the blonde holding her breath and bracing herself for what's to come. "That you don't get any credit for all the people you killed in the Games? Clarke gets to be the Mockingjay, but you murdered all those people too and you're just forgotten."

Clarke exhales heavily, trying to keep her breathing steady as her grip on the railing tightens, her knuckles turning white. She knows Raven is saying those things to get to him, and she knows Bellamy knows that, but still—a small part of him might agree, might resent Clarke for it.

Her breath hitches in the back of her throat at Raven's next words, "Then again, you were in the Quarter Quell too and they just left you behind. Like you were nothing. No one."

"Raven, that's enough," Wells snaps, dismissive and there's some rattling sounds. Clarke just hopes this doesn't trigger Bellamy. But if she goes in there—that will only further edge on Raven, encourage her, only put oil on the fire. She just hopes he'll walk away on his own. That he doesn't just stand there and take it like he always does. Because some fucked up part of him feels like he deserves it.

"Of course, all that's nothing compared to killing your own mother. You just couldn't do what Wallace asked you to do, could you?" If only she knew what Wallace asked him to do, what part of him he wanted next. "You might've as well put an arrow into Aurora's heart yourself." It suddenly all clicks. Raven read all their files before the Quarter Quell. She knows all their weaknesses and the venom is helping her use it against them. It's a sick twist of fate, that she was the one affected by the pod. "Do you think she'd be proud of you now? The kind of monster you've become?"

"Raven," Bellamy starts, calm, but she cuts him off, with a cold laugh. "Oh no, sweetheart. I just want you to see the truth like all of us do. You're a follower. You've been back at Clarke's side for what, a day? And you're already back to taking orders even though last time you did that, she left you behind."

Clarke's jaw clenches, moving down the last step of the stairs but stopping herself before she walks into the room, shaking her head to herself. She shouldn't. "The good little knight by his queen's side. Too bad you were never that devoted to Charlotte. That little girl, so young, who you swore to protect? You let her die, you let _her_ take the a spear to the chest that was meant for you because, like always, you were just trying to save your own ass—"

"That's enough," she hears herself speak, feels herself walk, before she can realize it. Wells just stares at her, dumbfounded, apologetic but she holds up a hand. Raven will be back to herself in a few hours. "Come on," she tugs on Bellamy's hand, takes him back upstairs to settle in for the night.

"You know," he starts, even, pausing when he hisses as Clarke pulls a little too hard on his wrist. "There's nothing she could say to me that they haven't already before."

She looks down at his wrist, pushing his sleeve up, the skin still red and raw from when he was cuffed. She can't think of what they did to him like it had its perks. Like he got stronger, and that's a good thing. He should've never gone through that, period. "Let me just take care of this before it gets infected."

He just nods, absently and she sits him down in a chair beside the couch Monty and Harper are asleep on. It's getting late, and they have an early morning ahead. They should probably get some sleep themselves soon. She gets some water from the bathroom and rips of a piece of a towel to use as a bandage, using the leftovers to clean the wounds gently.

"She's right. Everyone that's dead is dead because of me. I failed. I…" She sighs. She doesn't want to unload on him like this, but it just happens. Her voice cracks. "I killed them all. I killed Luna. I killed Monroe. I'm so sorry."

"Ontari, Myles, Gaia, Shumway, Emori, Madi. What do all those deaths mean? They mean our lives were never ours. There was no real life because we didn't have any choice. Our lives belong to Wallace, and our deaths do, too." His hand folds around her wrist, effectively stopping her from working on the lacerations on his own. He sounds hopeful. "But if you kill him, Clarke… If you end all of this, all those deaths, they mean something." His tongue darts out to wet his lips as his eyes rake her face, even if she's still staring at his warm, brown hand wrapped around her arm. Her heartbeat rattling in her throat as she tries to process his words. His thumb runs over the soft inside of her wrist. "Lincoln, Shaw, Monroe, Cooper, Luna. They chose this. They chose _you._ "

"You should've been the Mockingjay," she jokes, mouth dry, and it falls flat because her heart isn't in it. He put into words what she need to hear. That this all could still mean something,

"I don't think you realize the kind of effect you have on people," he retaliates, dead-serious, like he isn't making her stomach twist unnaturally in her belly. There's a small smile playing on his lips, but it fades as he drops his hands into his lap. He clears his throat, looking at her hand like he already regrets letting go of it. "It's not safe with me yet. I have moments when I'm here and my memories are getting better, but other times it's like—like I'm sleeping walking. Cuff me. Please."

She opens her mouth to protest, but then closes it, sighing softly as she reaches out for his hand again. She runs her thumb over his scarred but soft skin, then brings it up to her mouth to press her lips to the back of it. She meets his eyes and then lays it down on the arm of the chair gently, getting out the cuffs. If it's what he wants, if it'll give him a piece of mind, then—then she can do it.

After that, she lies down beside Miller. She falls asleep, for just a few moments. When she wakes up, Harper is gone from the couch and she hears Wells talking in a low voice on the other end of the room. She must've relieved him from his shift. Clarke figures Raven must've calmed down considerably. She doesn't know the exact half-life of trackerjacker venom, but she imagines it can't be much more than twelve hours.

She lies still, tries to focus on his voice as she blinks at the darkness. But it's Bellamy who talks next. She manages to catch the back-half of his sentence, "...slept in days either."

It's quiet for a moment, then Wells pushes out a breath. "I should've volunteered to take Finn's place. During the first Games." Clarke frowns at his words. What the hell is he on?

"No, you couldn't have," Bellamy counters, firm. "She would have never forgiven you."

"She can't lose you," Wells says after a beat, and she tries to lay there as still as possible, even though her heart is going a mile a minute. "She really loves you. The way she kissed you in the Quarter Quell—I've never seen her like that before."

"That was just part of the Games." No.

"No. You gave up everything for her. She knows that. I don't think she can survive without you."

Then their night is cut short when the radio releases a static noise, crackling, a distorted voice trying to come through until Monty tinkers with it a little, and then it does, "Base to Squad 100." Faint sunlight is streaming through the windows, indicating it's early morning.

Miller exchanges a few basics with them, what's transpired since the last radio contact, informs them of their deaths and their plan to get to Wallace's mansion. The voice on the other side informs them there will be more evacuations in a few hours, that they'll probably set up some sort of camp in the city centre for the Polis Citizens. It'll be a perfect opportunity for them to blend in. Then, they inform them a lot of citizen's have gotten hurt, and as a precaution, President Diyoza is sending in groups of healers to the field, to help the innocents after Wallace surrenders.

Bellamy is scrambling up onto his feet, making his way down the stairs without a second thought. "Octavia," Clarke explains, already rushing after him. If he goes out like that, out of his mind, out of place, he'll end up dead. And she can't—she _won't_ have that.

Miller and Wells are right behind her, Harper only sending them a questioning glance as she cuts her conversation with Raven short. At least she seems more like herself. If the apologetic gaze she sends Clarke's way is any indication. She doesn't have time for that right now, though.

"Bellamy, _stop_ —Diyoza's been training dozens of healers. Who says she's even on one of the teams coming down her?" Clarke pleads, and he turns to face her, brows furrowed together.

"Can you promise me Octavia won't be in one of them?" He counters, sharp, hands balling at his sides. His eyes are fiercely dark again, but there's no denying this is him. This isn't Polis, or Wallace. This is Bellamy, worried about his sister, wanting to protect his sister. "That she isn't out there right now, in danger?"

She opens her mouth but hesitates a moment too long and he cuts her off before she can say anything else. "That's what I thought." He brings his hand up to the door handle, and in a split second she reaches for the gun strapped to Miller's thigh.

"My sister is out there," he reasons, like that justifies anything. Like saving his sister will be worth losing him, worth bringing them all into danger. She cares about Octavia, she does, but—they can't save her like this. Without a plan.

She fires a warning shot into the wall beside his head, not caring who's attention she's catching outside the walls of the apartment. He still has one hand wrapped around the door handle, the other hanging limply below it, still cuffed to the other. He freezes, his head shifting barely to assess Clarke's hand trembling as she holds up the gun, pointing it at his chest.

"Clarke, what are you doing?" He bites, dropping his hand to turn towards her completely. His brow is still furrowed together, and he's not—he's not mad. He's _annoyed_.

She grits her teeth together, tries not to lose it a little. She can't shoot him, she won't, and she's afraid he knows that, too. "Doing what I have to do. Like always." _To keep you safe_. To keep everyone safe. If that door stays shut, that's what she can do.

"You're going to have to make it a killshot, princess," he urges, hands up in defense, eerily calm. He's looking almost amused. What a fucking asshole. "That's the only way you're going to stop me." He takes a step forward, looking her straight in the eyes, takes another one, until the barrel of the gun is pressing into his chest, hand shaking heavier with every inch he moves closer, never once breaking his gaze.

She can't break it, even if it's unbearable, even if she can hardly see through the tears. Her hand falters, the trembling too much, dropping down to her side as she turns her head away from him, fingers quickly wiping at the tears that have fallen. If he wants to leave—if she can't stop him—she'll have to go with him.

"Are you going to go out there with your hands cuffed?" Miller says, unimpressed.

"Bellamy," Harper reasons, rising from stool to close some of the distance between her and the rest of the unit. She smiles, small, but encouraging. "There's capital clothes right upstairs. At least change into those."

"She's right," Wells speaks up as well, and Clarke is thankful, that for once, she doesn't have to do this alone, that she has people on her side, a team. "We should go out there with a plan. Otherwise, you'll die and your sister will still be out there, unprotected."

Bellamy finally nods after what seems like ten minutes, just briefly, absently, but he agrees. At least. Agrees to stay, for now. He can't look at her, but he'll do this for her. For them. For his sister. He won't just risk his life without a plan.

He finds her later, when she's packing her bag, hiding her bow under the long cloak Harper got out for her. They decided only she and Wells should go. Raven is still too weak and Miller, Monty and Harper never signed up for this part. Bellamy comes because he needs to, there's not much choice there.

Polis is evacuating its citizens more than half a mile outside the city circle. They're invited to the mansion for shelter and sanctuary. All refugees will be provided with food, medicine and safety for their children. It's their perfect in. The television in one of the bedrooms had flashed on, Wallace providing them as much information, before saying, "And you will have my solemn oath to protect your until my dying breath."

Harper had snorted, pulling on the cord of Clarke's Polis fashion corset a little rougher than was probably necessary. "Wish he would hurry up with the last part." Then she'd yanked out the cable providing electricity to the device with a satisfied smile.

"I'm sorry," he mutters, running a hand through his hair. He's still avoiding her direct gaze. "I—I wasn't thinking."

"That's a surprise," she snaps, despite herself, crossing her arms over her chest. She doesn't want to give him any more reasons to resent her, but she feels an undeniable rage take over her body more than anything else she might feel for him. He was ready to go out there, recklessly, and let himself get killed.

"Clarke," he sighs, clenching his jaw before stating, "You don't understand."

"No, _you_ don't understand," she bites back, harsher than probably necessary. "In a few minutes, we're going to be in the field and we can't have anything up in the air. You can't be distracted. Not out there. Not when the stakes are so high." She hesitates, then adds, poking him in the chest with a finger, "So ask me."

He tilts his head slightly, and he still looks pissed. "Ask you what?"

Before everything else, they were always honest with each other. "Anything you want to know, anything you've been thinking about that might trigger you out there, or any resentment that might keep you from following an order from me, or Wells."

"Fine." His face hardens even further, shoulders straightening so he's a broad, brick wall of aversion. "You killed our baby."

He doesn't say real or not real. "There was never a baby, Bellamy," she snaps, frustration showing even though she willed it not to. She's still not used to his hostility and it has her on edge. Yet, she forces herself to steady her voice. "Try and remember. We never—we never did anything but kiss. Remember that?"

Finally, his gaze softens, shoulders sagging a little. His face is still only hard lines. "We kissed… When I almost died?"

"Yeah," she smiles, weak, lips still trembling slightly. "And on the beach."

He shakes his head, pinching the bridge of his nose before his palm slides over his forehead into his hair. He looks up, staring down at her face with a pensive look on his face—the quiet they lapsed into slowly eating away at her.

"I've lost you," he says next and she doesn't quite know what to say, taken aback by the statement. "I hurt you, Clarke, I could've…" He can't finish his sentence, scrubbing a hand over his mouth.

"Hey," she counters, stern, prying his hand away from his face and wrapping hers around his fingers. "You may have blood on your hands, but it's not mine. You didn't want that to happen. You tried to stop yourself." She pauses, puts her free hand on the side of his face, trailing a finger down his cheekbone. She shakes her head, drops her hand. She was never going to hold a grudge over what happened, not with him. "I forgave you the second after it happened. The question is, will you forgive yourself?"

He tilts his head slightly, his eyes brimming with tears as his voice breaks. "Forgiveness is hard for us."

Her eyes soften. "You know you're not the only one trying to forgive yourself." There's so many things, so many, that she wishes she could take back, or change. "Maybe someday we'll get that. But we need each other Bellamy." They're not going to make it out there if they're each others enemies. "The only way we're going to pull this off is together."

She'd come back from the bedroom earlier to find Bellamy and Wells discussing their game plan with Raven. She'd looked better, less sweaty. "Is he still in the mansion?" Wells had asked Bellamy, confirming they'd seen the same presidential message earlier.

"Yeah, I recognize the room."

"Where is that?" He'd gone on, and Raven had sighed, looking at the blueprints in her lap. She'd pointed at a spot. "About five blocks away. They'll probably deactivate the pods around here for the residents' safety."

It meant Clarke could get close enough to Wallace. Close enough to fire an arrow into his chest. Even if every Peacekeeper in the country was going to be waiting, Squad 100's faces displayed on every billboard. They just had to hope the stream of thousands of refugees would be enough to draw the attention away from them.

In the present, Raven grabs a hold of her wrist as Clarke passes the chair she's now lodged on, instead of splayed across a kitchen table. She looks uncomfortable. "I'm sorry. For the things I said. Earlier." She winces. Apologies aren't really up her alley. "I wasn't—"

"You weren't yourself," Clarke confirms. She unwraps her hand from her wrist, carefully puts it down on her lap with a careful smile. "I'll come back for you, okay? I promise you that."

It's apparently still a soft spot for her. Wells told her once that Raven was left on Finn's mother's doorstep and since his parents weren't around much either, it was just two two of them. The two of them, and he ended up abandoning her, too. It's why she never really opened up to Wells when they first met. He had to earn his way in.

Panic flashes across her eyes for a second, then it's gone. "I know you will. Like I said, I'm fucking awesome."

* * *

Over the speakers, a loud automated female voice blares commands for the assembly of scared citizens. _By order of President Wallace, all residents must proceed to the presidential estate._

They make their way through the crowd of swarming men, women and children, hoods up and faces down. She's walking beside Bellamy, Wells a little further up ahead to not draw too much attention. Darker skinned boys in Polis were uncommon, let alone two walking side by side.

 _Please, continue to move forward in a calm and orderly fashion._

There's Peacekeepers on both sides of the crowds, a checkpoint up ahead. When Clarke stands up on her tiptoes, she can just make out one of them pulling off hoods and hats, checking faces, scanning their fingerprints. There's no way they're going to get through that way.

 _Additional food, medicine and clothing will be provided upon arrival._

She pulls on Bellamy's hand, tries to get across that they need to fall back with a pointed look only, afraid her non-capital accent will give her away, Wells already trying to circle back through the crowd. She meets his eye. He shakes his head inconspicuously, pretending to scratch his temple when a Peacekeeper pushes through the crowd beside him.

Clarke holds her breath, as the Polis guard stops in front of Wells. They exchange some words and then the Peacekeeper yanks down Wells' hood; then he's being pulled towards a nearby truck by his arm, roughly; then he is shoved against it, blood spurting from his nose as it makes hard contact with the metal.

 _By order of President Wallace, all residents must proceed to the presidential estate._

"Shit," she mutters under her breath, pushing back forward, already losing her grip on Bellamy's hand. _Shit_. Wells doesn't look her way, which is probably smart, because it would give her and Bellamy away immediately. But—but this is _Wells_ they're talking about. She has to at least try and help him escape. If she can't get close enough, then she'll leave. Then she'll find another way to continue their plan.

She reaches the end of bodies, close to the truck. She tries to stay in the stream of people as a cover, but someone pushes her or her foot catches on something and she stumbles forward suddenly, just able to hide behind the left side of the truck, the opposite side of Wells, before the Peacekeepers spot her.

She knows she isn't safe here, is too out in the open, it's only seconds before either a Peacekeeper grabs her or one from another post spots her from across the crowds. So in a split second, she drops to the floor and rolls underneath the truck. She startles as someone slides in behind her, fearful for the three seconds it takes her brain to register it's Bellamy. He followed her.

He presses a finger to his mouth as best as he can in the awkward angle he's in, on her stomach like her. Softly, he whispers in a hushed voice, "He would do the same for me."

She nods as well as possible, fumbling for an arrow under her cloak—maybe she can set off some explosion behind them and distract them long enough for Wells to escape. She turns her head to estimate how much armspace she needs, just as the Peacekeepers slam Wells into the floor. He yelps out in pain, a knee pressed into his back and his hands held back. His cheek is pressed to the floor, blood still dripping from his nose onto the ground. She has to bite down on her tongue to keep from letting out a sob. He manages to turn his head onto his other cheek when the release the slightest bit of pressure on his spine, surprise in his eyes as he makes eye-contact with her.

Her hands had frozen under her cloak at the sight of him, but she quickly continues scrambling for an arrow, hoping the sight of that will tell him she has a plan. Bellamy helps her by trying to pull the cloth further his way, but he has even less space to work with because he's bigger than her. Wells grinds his teeth back together, the smallest dismissive shake of his head. "Kill me," he mouths, and Clarke literally feels her heart stop in her chest.

"Kill me," he repeats, soundlessly, before hissing as the Peacekeeper digs his knee further into his back, tying a zip-tie around his wrists way too tight. Clarke hands folds around the gun strapped to her hip, trembling, because this what she owes him, right? For him to not be tortured for information because of her. Her hand shakes too much, finger slipping off the trigger, even though Wells' mouthing, "It's okay, it's okay," and Bellamy's hand slides over her back to cover her hand with his. She chokes back a sob, her entire body shaking as tears of relief spring from the corners of her eyes.

He'll pull the trigger. He'll pull the trigger because he knows she wouldn't be able to live knowing she did it.

They drop another body on the ground behind Wells, but the Peacekeepers stays on top of him, even if he's completely restrained, even if he can hardly fight back. If Wells had been in any other position, Bellamy wouldn't been able to shoot him, and Clarke almost wishes they'd just put him in the truck and taken him away. That the three of them had just stayed in that apartment. But before they went, they all decided their lives weren't worth as much as taking down Wallace was. That was a promise she had to keep. The deaths—the lives that were lost, they would only mean something if they succeeded today.

"I'm sorry," she cries, silently, and Wells closes his eyes. He closes his eyes, and she brings up her hand to cover her mouth instead, because she can't cry, not out loud, not when they're surrounded by their enemies, and Bellamy pulls back the safety with his thumb—

Then there's a loud bang, even though Bellamy didn't move his finger yet, and Clarke's eyes spring open to stare back into Wells' lifeless eyes, blood pooling around his head. _They're executing them on the spot._ She lets out a guttural scream behind her hand, a shock running through her body as they fire off another shot, into the person behind Wells. _They know they can't win, that torture in exchange for information will get them nowhere this time around, so now they're just taking down as many of them as they can_.

Bellamy drops the gun, wrapping his arm around her back instead as he tries to hush her as best as possible, but she can't see through the tears, can't get away from the blood seeping towards her, seeping into her clothes, onto her hand and her collarbone, even as she tries to get away from it, but she can't get away from it, because the blood is everywhere, and they're stuck, they're stuck and she can't breathe, can't catch her breath, can't feel anything but a sharp pain in her chest.

Wells… Her best friend. He's gone.

"Clarke," Bellamy whispers, and she can make out the words, but they sound so far away. There seems to be some sort of commotion going on in the crowd, people yelling and screaming, kids crying. "We have to move now, okay?"

She forces herself to take a deep breath, to focus on anything else but the pain, focus on the anger instead. She nods, firm, her soft whimpers dying down as she takes in another heavy, shuddering breath. She has to make it mean something.

He pushes himself from under the truck first, quickly helping her out as well. His eyes flicker over to the exposed skin above her black, corseted shirt with a heavy bob of his adam's apple and she doesn't have to look to know it's Wells' blood. She quickly adjusts the cloak so it's covering her up again as he pulls her back into the crowd. She can now make out what they're yelling about.

"It's the rebels," a woman screeches, pushing passed another person wildly. Rebels. Rebels. Rebels. They keep yelling, picking up kids and setting them down. "They're attacking," another man barks, reckless, pushing a young teen to the ground as he tries to scramble further ahead.

 _Stay calm. Bring you children forward._

Bellamy helps the kid up, and as he brushes off the dirt on his shoulder, exchanges a brief glance with Clarke. This is their shot. This is their another way. The uproar will offer enough distraction for them to try and slip through the gates undetected. They push their way forward.

 _The gates will open momentarily. The children will be received first. Stay calm._

They come to a halt beside a tank, the crowd getting too big to fit when the gates are still closed, Peacekeepers are giving out orders from on top of them. She takes the opportunity to take a moment, maybe their final one. "I have to kill him, Bellamy," she says, keeping her gaze fixed ahead. He should stay here. Hide somewhere and wait out his sister.

He steadies himself as somebody crashes into his chest, trying to get to the front as soon as possible. He guides the person back to his feet without even breaking their gaze. He huffs, like he can read her mind. "I'm coming."

"No," she demands, desperate, fingers curling into fists until a sharp pain shoots up her arms. "I'm not losing you again." She angles her head slightly towards him, to meet his eye for barely a second. She swallows, thickly. "Not you too."

His hand finds hers, folding his fingers around it until her fingers relax and straighten, then he squeezes, soft. His lips curve into the faintest of smirks. "You're out of your mind if you think I'm going to let you do this alone."

She manages a weak smile, not daring to look at him again, because this isn't what she wants, not for him, but she's hardly in the position to ask for any favors from him.

There's still shots coming from behind, people desperate to advance forward, the mass dissipating into different directions now they're closer. As she's turning to look where the shots are coming from, their fingers slipping apart, she's hit square in the chest by one of the flying bullets. Her breath hitches in the back of her throat as she's propelled into the nearest tank, head hitting the metal with a loud thud. Her ears are ringing—as she opens her eyes, vision blurred, not sure how long it's been since she got hit—but the shots have finally dwindled down, it seems.

A team of healers rushes in to help the wounded, which means the rebels must have stopped on their own behalf, and Bellamy helps her up, a cut on his cheekbone, but he looks fine otherwise. He wasn't hit. He asks her if she's okay, but it takes a few tries for her to understand what he's saying. She nods, dazed, and then he squeezes her shoulder, looking over his shoulder before turning back to her. "I'll be right back, okay? Stay here."

"No," she says, but her mouth doesn't move, just tastes like metal, and she has to steady herself by grabbing a hold of the tank beside her. The last time they seperated—it didn't end well. She watches him jog over towards his sister, "Octavia!" The crowd's now less dense, making it easier to move through, and when he's just half a hundred feet away the hair on the back of Clarke's neck stand up straight. There's an eerily familiar sound, and it's coming from above.

Bellamy must recognize it, too, because when she looks up, she can see him doing the same in her peripheral vision. There's tiny parachutes in the air, carrying silver boxes, like the sponsors would send them in the Games. Her stomach swirls, an unbearable feeling of dread building up as people start reaching for them, exclaiming thanks to their president. Something isn't right.

Why would the rebels attack, then send in the healers? Why would President Snow send down the parachutes just as he's losing?

"Bellamy!" She yells, but she's not sure any sound is leaving her throat this time either. It isn't right. She starts running towards them, tries to get there, but she's still dizzy, and she's stumbling, her legs giving out. Octavia turns as he calls out her name again, now close enough for her to hear, crouched over beside a young boy. A small smile slowly spreads across her face at the sight of her brother. Clarke falls down, hands scraping over the ground, can only watch the parachute dwindle down above Octavia's head. Clarke's close, but she's too far away to warn them, voice not loud enough above the commotion, not quite working, can only croak out a "Bellamy, no!", and the parachute, it's coming down rapidly, she imagines he's smiling now, close to his sister, as he calls, "Octavia!". The brunette opens her mouth to speak, to say something to her brother and then there's a blast and then—then there's nothing.

She has nothing.

* * *

She jolts awake, trying to sit up immediately to try and warn Bellamy, because those parachutes, they're not gifts, they're tricks—but she must have passed out, or somebody must have knocked her over and she hit her head again, and a small hand tries to ease her back onto something soft.

"Hey, I need you to lie back." It's Raven, Clarke realizes, when her vision starts to clear, and it's not just black anymore. She's back in thirteen, she realizes immediately, dread settling into her stomach instantly. "You're okay. Everything's going to be okay."

She's back in thirteen. Alone? "What about—"

"Bellamy is okay. He was close to one of the detonations but he woke up a few days ago."

A few days ago. Clarke nods, too quick, her head spinning. She bites down on her lip to keep from crying. She didn't even mention Octavia. That must mean—that must mean….

"Raven," she rasps, wincing as her head hits the pillow, and she's crying again, tears trailing down her temples, but it's not from pain. Wells. Wells. Wells. He was Raven's as much as he was hers, maybe even more so. "I'm so—so sorry."

"I know," she smiles, but her voice breaks on the last word. She squeezes Clarke's arm, swallowing thickly. She opens her mouth, raking the blonde's face, but then deflates, settling on a simple, "I know."

Was it worth it? Did they…

"The fight was over after Polis dropped those bombs to defend the palace. The rebels walked right in." The rebels. Polis. "Everybody felt it. Peacekeepers. Palace guards. They had kids in there, too. It was over after that."

Raven brushes away a tear, quickly, but Clarke catches it. She clears her throat, rising to her feet. "I should probably warn Abby you're awake."

* * *

It's nice outside, by the trees, his head in her lap and her sketchbook discarded at her feet. She can't help but wonder if it'll always feel like this, though. Like the colors aren't as bright, like the leaves barely make a sound when they crunch under their feet, like her heart is hollow.

She sketches Bellamy, most of the time, when they're outside. She can't quite bring herself to do Wells, not yet. If she does—that just means it'll be all she has left of him. She wants to do it before she forgets all the details; the crinkles by his eyes when he smiled, the shape of the small scar on his left eyebrow, the shape of his philtrum, the veins on his neck. Just—not yet. And she can't possibly sketch Octavia, not in front of him, can only do that in the privacy of her own room. So she lets him lie in her lap, and stare at nothing for hours. Let's him cry into her shoulder. Cries with him.

A few days after she wakes up from her coma—they're sitting side by side, shoulder to shoulder, backs against a broad tree—he finally talks, making her still her hands in the middle of drawing Shaw. She'd been trying something new, someone new, that day. If only so she could tell herself she would get down to Wells eventually.

He picks up a small branch, flicks it into the distance absently. Raven told her. How he wouldn't stop screaming after he woke up. He got off with minimal burns, the blast getting the most of him, knocking him out. He was lucky, her mom said. Lucky. "When Raven said I was no one, I didn't get angry." His jaw clenches a little, and she remembers how he said it wasn't anything they'd already told him. One knee is drawn up to his chest, the other stretched out. Then it unclenches as he raps a knuckle against his thigh. "I didn't get angry, because deep down I always knew that. I knew I wasn't much to anyone."

Clarke opens her mouth, wants to protests, but puts her sketchbook on the ground beside her instead, letting him process his thoughts, gaze fixed ahead as her mouth snaps shut quietly. His voice breaks as a tear slips down his cheek. "But I always was her brother, you know?" He swallows, tight, using his knuckle to wipe at the wetness roughly. "I would always be that, at least." He finally shifts his head to meet her gaze. "And that—that would be enough, even if I—even if I didn't have you. I would always have her."

She puts her hand on top of his knee, softly, leans her forehead on top of it briefly. "I know," she says, and it's hard not to break down herself, "I know."

He sniffs, leaning his head back against the tree, and she reaches down her jumpsuit with her free hand. She takes her hand off his knee, and pries open the hand resting in his lap carefully. Inside, she puts the shell he gave her a million light years ago _. It has to be you, Clarke_.

He looks up from his hand to meet her gaze. There's a question in his eyes, confusion evident. She folds his fingers around it, gently, wrapping her own hands around it. "It's for you. I had it with me when I needed it the most. Maybe—maybe now, it can help you."

* * *

"You're going to execute Echo?" Clarke pushes the door open so hard, it slams against the wall of Diyoza's office loudly. "That wasn't part of the deal you and I made."

Through gritted teeth, their president acknowledges her, "Miss Griffin." The corners of her lips are still curved up slightly. Clarke doesn't know why she's still putting up that act when no one else is around.

Echo had caught her earlier, when Clarke was leaving Bellamy's room. He'd finally fallen asleep, and she wanted to get him something to eat from the mesh hall, in case he was hungry later. "Remember when I saved your life?"

"Echo, I don't have time for this," she'd dismissed her, eyes narrowed as she'd pushed past her. She hadn't felt like rehashing their earlier conversations. They always ended in a fight, and she was too emotionally drained for that nowadays.

She hadn't faltered, hand wrapping around her arm roughly before Clarke could get away, stone-faced. The blonde noticed one of the guards, then, keeping a close eye on them, not too far away. The orange suit she was wearing. The redness around her wrists. "I was hoping you could do the same for me."

She'd frozen dead in her tracks, not even bothering to yank her arm lose even if that had been her first instinct. Echo hadn't looked like she was joking. "The same?"

"I don't have much time left, Mockingjay. Not if it's up to Diyoza."

A guard who Clarke had brushed past way too easily comes in after her, panting. Diyoza dismisses him, unbothered by the wild look in the victor's eyes. Clarke ignores her president, stalking up in front of her desk and slamming her hands on top of the table. She stares straight into the other woman's eyes, even if her vision is faltering, fading into images of Wells.

Wells beaming brightly, one of his front tooth missing, as he let her borrow his favorite pencil in second grade. Wells, that pensive look on his face as he thought up his next chess move. Wells on the ground, a gun put to his head, just to make a statement. The blood—she can still smell it, still feels it stick to her skin. She never quite got all of it off Luna's pendant.

She forces her voice to be steady, forces herself to swallow down the bile rising up in her throat. "Is this who we are are? Is this what we're going to do? To our own people?"

Our own people. They're all just people, persons. Echo is a person. And no matter their personal differences, she doesn't deserve to die. Not like that. Not like they did to Wells. What would be the difference? She was just trying to survive, like the rest of them. Only she choose the wrong side. _War makes murderers of us all_ , that's what Echo told her. Maybe that was true, maybe they were all just as bad as their enemy, but the war was over, the war was over and now they get to decide to be better. They get that choice again.

"A lot of people could have been killed if we hadn't caught her, Clarke." Diyoza leans back in her chair, folding her hands over her stomach, one eyebrow lifted skeptically. "Our _own_ people."

"But we did! We caught her." Nobody died. Echo snuck into the control room and tried to radio Wallace, tried to tell him about the Rebels attacking from behind, about God knows what else, because of some misplaced sense of loyalty, because of the things he did to her, or maybe because she believed in the things he believed in, or maybe she thought they were losing, and she deserved to be punished for that, she did. She didn't deserve to die.

Her face hardens. "That's not the point."

"I'm not saying she walks away free, I'm just saying she at least deserves a fair trial." Life here should be less like the life they lived. The future should be about more than just surviving. Diyoza shouldn't get to decide who lives and dies, just like that. Not now, not after what they've been through, what they went through to stop it.

"I'll think about it," she concludes, already looking back down at the files in front of her, but Clarke knows she won't. "In the meantime, maybe there's someone you'd like to visit."

* * *

She asks Bellamy if he wants to come, but he reclines. He wants to pack up some of Octavia's belongings. Clarke knows it's because he doesn't know what he'll do to Wallace when he sees him.

They fly her back over to Polis, where they locked Wallace in his garden house, surrounded by his favorite flowers, awaiting his public execution. She was too late, too late to do it herself, but she can take some comfort in knowing he'll die a public death, like so many of the children in the Games before him. She lets her fingers tread over some of the colorful petals, coming to a halt in front of a pretty green one that reminds her off Octavia's eyes.

"That's a nice one." The flower crumples in her hand at the sound of his voice, the hairs on the back of her neck standing up straight.

She turns to glare at him, hands slightly shaking. "You're the reason my best friend is dead. The reason Octavia Blake died. The reason _thousands_ of people died before them." She huffs, and it takes everything in her not to spit right in his face. "Color sure is pretty though."

He smiles, despite her hostility, folding his hands together in front of him. "I was hoping you'd find your way here. We have much to discuss, but I have a feeling your visit will be short." She just scoffs in response as he reaches out to pluck a red rose.

He admires it, then his gaze snaps back up to hers. "First things first, I'm very sorry to hear about Bellamy's sister. From what I heard, she was a very bright young woman. So wasteful, so unnecessary. Don't you think?" He tuts, Clarke's blood boiling instantly. "Anyone could see the game was over by that point. In fact, I was just about to issue an official surrender when they released those parachutes."

She snatches the rose from his hands, not even flinching when the thorns slice open her skin as she thrusts it onto the floor. Blood drips down her fingers onto the floor, but she couldn't possibly care less. " _You_ released those parachutes."

He grins, small, amused even maybe as he studies her thoroughly. "You really think I gave the order?"

He might think he can manipulate her one last time, but he's dead wrong. She bites back, "We both know you're not above killing defenseless children."

"We also know I'm not wasteful. I take life for specific reasons. There was no reason for me to destroy the lives of al those Polis children. None at all." He chuckles, absently, looking down at the crumpled rose on the ground. "I must admit, it was a masterful move on Diyoza's part."

The idea that Wallace was bombing his own helpless children to hold back the rebels from his mansion, it was the final straw for most people, turning the last of his guards against him. Effectively rendering the capital and the mansion without any resistance. Her blood runs cold. _Something isn't right_. That's what she thought, the moment it happened.

"Do you know it aired live?" He continues, like her head isn't spinning, like sweat is starting to drip down the back of her neck, like his voice doesn't sound like it's coming from a million miles away. "There's a particular savvy in that, isn't there?"

She grinds her teeth together. She doesn't want to listen to this, to him.

"I'm sure she wasn't gunning for Blake's sister specifically, but these things happen in war." He lifts a shoulder, reaching out to twirl a rose petal in between his fingers. "My failure was in being so slow to grasp Diyoza's plan."

She let the capital and the districts destroy each other, then stepped in to take power with thirteen's arsenal. She's proven already she intends to take Wallace's place, intends to continue, just like him. All this time, Wallace was watching the Mockingjay and she was watching Wallace.

He snickers, like this is all just a stupid joke. "I'm afraid we've both been played for fools."

"I don't believe you," she says, quiet yet fierce, but she doesn't even believe the words herself.

"Oh, miss Griffin. I think we both know you were never that good of an actress."

* * *

Raven finds her in her old hiding spot, in the vents, and Clarke tries not to think about _how_ she knows where that is, _who_ told her about it. She can't think about him right now. "Everybody is waiting for you."

Clarke ignores her, keeps her eyes fixated on the Mockingjay pin in her hands. She runs her thumb over it. It's lost most of his shine. "Was it ours?" She asks, throat dry, eyes flicking up to meet the brunette's gaze. Her face remains neutral so Clarke adds, a little bit more sharpness to her voice, "The wounded. The explosions. The trap. To draw more people in. Was it us?"

"I don't know," Raven admits, honestly. "All I know is Diyoza had me and Sinclair put together bombs on the regular. Each time they said supply had run out, but we were barely in the field. I try not to think about it. Because whoever dropped them, my hands put them together."

 _You can't protect anyone in an arena_. Because that's what it was, right? Just another game, another arena. She has to get away. Diyoza asked to meet her, and it's about time they had a conversation.

"Clarke," Raven exclaims, reaching for her, but the blonde is faster. Raven has the brace, and Clarke would feel guilty for bolting out of there without helping her, if—if there wasn't something that had to be done. For all of their sake's.

"What's this?" She stops in the doorway of the conference room, looking around the large table.

Bellamy's there. Anya. Murphy. Sinclair. Even Echo. She can't help but note it's all that's left of the victors. After all the games, after the purge, after the war— _six_ is what's left.

Diyoza waves her over, pulls a chair back beside Anya and Bellamy. Echo is beside Bellamy, her hands tied behind her back as they exchange a knowing look. A saccharine sweet smile on the president's face. "Won't you join us?"

Clarke sits down, dazed. She'd come here to confront Diyoza, but now she was more curious to find out her endgame. If maybe there was something else up her sleeve. "I have invited you all here for several reasons, but first, I have an announcement."

She says she's taken the honor and the burden of upon herself to declaring herself interim president of Panem. Like that isn't exactly what she wanted all along. She can't put a time frame on the interim, _unfortunately,_ but argues that the people are too emotional right now to make any rational decisions. So she'll plan a election when the time is right. When she _feels_ the time is right. Which might be never.

She wipes the smile of her face, folding her hands together on top of the table. "But I have called you here for a far more important vote. A symbolic vote."

That afternoon she will execute Wallace. Hundreds of his accomplices also awaiting their deaths. Polis officials, Peacekeepers, Gamemakers. And others, like Echo. Diyoza reasons that an execution won't be enough. That the rebels will want more, retribution.

"The thirst for blood is a difficult urge to satisfy."

She has an alternative plan. Have them vote on it. Nobody is allowed to abstain. Majority of six can approve it. She proposes a symbolic Hunger Games, in lieu of the 'barbaric' executions.

"You want to have another Games with Polis children?" Bellamy summarizes, bitingly, his shoulders tense. "You're joking."

Diyoza presses her lips together in a tight line, tapping a finger on top of the table. "Not in the slightest."

"Is this Kane's idea?" Clarke wonders, sharply, when she's certain her voice won't falter. The rest of the room is eerily quiet.

"It was mine," Diyoza admits, unashamed. "It balances the need for revenge with the least loss of human life." Least loss of human life? Like when she bombed all those kids, all those healers, she means?

Clarke snaps her mouth shut, not sure she should reveal any of that to all of them. Not yet. Not until she has a chance to make Diyoza pay. Because if there's one thing that's certain, it's that this was her. She was the one who used Shaw's plan to her advantage. She was the one who ordered those bombs. She was the one who killed Octavia.

Diyoza nods, like she's won an argument, looking across all of their faces. All six of them. "You may cast your votes."

"Absolutely fucking not. This is crazy," Bellamy retorts immediately, whole posture rigid. He went through those Games, twice. He doesn't want that for anyone else. Especially not when it's not them who did anything wrong.

"I think it's fair. Blood must have blood, right? I hear Wallace has a granddaughter." Murphy is sitting two seats over from her, and she can still smell the alcohol oozing off him as he opens his mouth. She doesn't dare look over at him. "I say yes."

"So do I," Echo follows, and Clarke doesn't know if it's actually what she wants, or just something she's saying to please Diyoza as a last attempt to save herself.

"This way of thinking is what started these uprisings. I vote no," Sinclair says, eyes flicking over to her partner. "With Bellamy."

Displeasance flashes across the president's eyes for just a second, and the victor wouldn't have noticed it had she not been watching her so closely. "It's up to Clarke and Anya."

So would Luna if she was here. Be with Bellamy and Sinclair on this. She would want them to stop viewing each other as enemies, but she's not. Because Wallace killed her. And it's easy, to take it all out on him. She could, so easily, happily too. But they would be back to square one. He's not the one they're in danger of. Not anymore. This isn't what Clarke wants either. But if she votes no now, she might never get another chance to make this right.

Diyoza wants emotional? She can give her that.

"I get to kill Wallace," she says and the corners of Diyoza's lips turn up, gratified, like she has her right where she wants to. "I expected nothing less of you."

"Then yes," she complies, looking over at Bellamy briefly. "For Octavia." Ironically, she _would_ probably want this. She would agree with the 'least human loss approach', no matter what. Clarke knows her brother would never think that of her, though. He never stopped seeing her as the little twelve year old girl she once was, whose name got called in a townsquare full of innocent children, who he had to take care off.

Bellamy just scoffs, but he doesn't say anything. His gaze is fixed straight ahead, darkly. He doesn't understand now, but she hopes he will later. Hopes he still trusts her.

"Anya?"

Her old mentor exhales loudly, then purses her lips. "I'm with the Mockingjay."

Diyoza claps her hand together, final. "That carries the vote. Excellent. We'll announce the Games tonight, after Wallace's execution."

It's bound to be quite the show.

* * *

After the execution, Anya and Kane find her in the train station. She doesn't remember much of it, has been staring at her trembling hands for God knows who long, has been on the floor even longer.

"You never disappoint," Anya says, cynical.

It comes back in flashes. Diyoza was talking about _a new Panem, a free Panem_ , and Clarke was listening but she was looking at Wallace, that smug smirk on his face. _Justice_ , she called it. But who was going to bring justice to Diyoza? She would be a tyrant, a dictator, with no one left to stop her. For all things Wallace was, Diyoza might end up being worse. She didn't even take credit for her worst crimes, probably excused them in the name of tactics, of war. Next, she said a new era would be upon them. Clarke agreed. Just not with her in it.

When it was time, she'd drawn her bow, and Diyoza had smiled, pleased, raising her her hands in the air. "Mockingjay, may your aim be as true as your heart is pure." And then Clarke had released the string, switching her aim the last second so it wouldn't relieve Wallace from his suffering, but it would hit Diyoza in between the eyes instead. For Octavia. For all those kids, in front of the mansion, all the kids she was going to have fight in an arena.

"You shocked the entire country with that arrow, Mockingjay," Kane says, putting a hand on top of her shoulder. Clarke flinches away. When she closes her eyes, she sees it again. All those people, running for Wallace, clawing at him, begging to be able to kill him. He was just there, strung up, unable to fight back.. "I wasn't. You are _exactly_ who I believed you were."

"What now?" she asks, swallowing to try and form some saliva in her mouth.

"Now that Wallace and Diyoza are both dead, the fate of the country will be decided tonight between twelve district leaders who'll call for a free election," Kane explains, diplomatic as ever. Clarke is listening, to what they're saying, but they sound far away, and she feels like she isn't quite inside of her own body.

"I don't doubt Indra Baum will carry it," Anya says, and she doesn't roll her eyes, but it's implied. "Always the voice of reason, she."

"I'm sorry for this, Clarke. That so much of the burden fell on you," Kane again, soft this time. "I know you'll never escape it." _She'll bear it, so they don't have to._ So there can be a future that isn't just about survival. So they can have more. "But if I had to put you through it again, for this outcome, I would."

"It's better for you to be out of sight," Anya breaks him off, flicking some dust off her shoulder like nothing's happened. Clarke got so used to fighting, she doesn't know how not to. "Baum will pardon you when the time is right."

Anya pulls her to her feet, and pushes her towards the platforms. Just before they get in the train, Kane put his hand on top of her shoulder. "Clarke." She catches his eye, and he tilts his head, gaze softening. "The country will find its peace. And I hope you find yours."

"Fuck," Anya mutters low under her breath, pinching the bridge of her nose. "I'm way too sober for this." Then she pushes Clarke onto the nearest train car. "Let's go home."

* * *

Somehow, that stupid cat ends up at her house. It hates her, yet it doesn't seem to want to leave her side. For some reason, she figures it's Octavia's way of looking after her. It's nice, because it means she's not completely alone in this house way too big for her, but it also sucks. Like when Skye steals her favorite paintbrush and she has to chase her around her garden.

She's inches away from grabbing her by the tail when she knocks into—"Bellamy?" She exclaims, and she can't quite believe it. It's been months. "You're here."

He had some difficulty, after what happened with Wallace and Diyoza. To process it all. He had a hard time trusting people, and the one person who helped them betraying him and murdering his sister didn't help. Her mom had suggested he'd stay for a while, continue to see Jackson, a healer specialized in _non-physical injuries_. And in not-so-many-words suggested it might be good for the both of them, to spend some time apart. While he—adjusted to reality.

"Yeah," he breathes, rubbing the back of his neck a little awkwardly. "Thirteen was never my home." He grins, shy almost all of a sudden. "Besides. I can never seem to catch any sleep."

She smiles at that, for the first time in maybe weeks. "And now you're home," she confirms, not taking her eyes off him just in case, and he nods. It's quiet for a moment as they just take in the sight of each other.

It's weird, to realize that slumbering unsettling feeling she felt in the pit of her stomach all these months was not unlike homesickness. Then she points her thumb over her shoulder, flushing all over. "If you want. Uhm. I was baking some sticky buns?"

He hugs her. For her, district twelve, the Victor's Village, they were never so much a home as they were a place she stayed. It wasn't the same without him. He presses his mouth to her shoulder, briefly, then lifts it so he's more audible. "Those were O's favorite."

"I know," she says, with a smile, and she's glad he can say her name without breaking down now. He's doing better.

He drops his bag at her door when they go inside. The bag never leaves the house again.

* * *

Her mom's training new healing units in Polis. Harper sends her letters every month, of their life Polis, what it's like rebuilding their capital, the schools and the houses and the shops, this time without the prospect of all the bloodshed. She even sends an invitation for her wedding to Monty. They never needed words to understand each other. Clarke could relate to that, at least. When she declined the invitation to attend, sweet Harper was only full of understanding, ending her next letter with: _we've all suffered so much. We owe it to their memories and to our (future) children to do the best with these lives. I hope you're both finding some peace._ Raven brings her photos, of a fat baby with Wells' eyes and Wells' smile, every visit. So much, she has an entire scrapbook full of them. Of course, she lets Clarke hold the baby, too. His name is Leo, and he has adorable pudgy cheeks and bright brown eyes. Bellamy suggested the name, after one of his favorite constellations. _It means lion_ , he'd said, _brave, like his father_. It's one of the only times Clarke's ever seen Raven cry. Murphy even helps Raven out with the baby now and then, when he's not isolating himself and drinking more than is good for any human being. He'll never forgive Clarke, but he's accepted what she's done at least, accepted she's paid her dues, one way or another. Anya is same old Anya, a drunken hermit who doesn't like to be bothered on most days.

Mostly, it's just her and Bellamy.

They watched Indra being sworn in on the little television in her living room, the two of them. Kane right there, beside her.

"And they say no one ever wins the Games," Bellamy had noted dryly, hands warm on top of her feet perched in his lap.

Ever since he got back, they've been friends. Just friends. Strictly friends. They have a routine. He hunts, she does laundry. They eat breakfast. She paints, he reads. She bakes, he cooks. They take walks in the forest. She gardens, he pets the stupid cat until it can't stop purring. She sketches, he reads to her. They fall asleep together. Always together.

She would be okay with that. Just having him in her life would be enough. Knowing he's alive and happy would be enough. She's—really—okay with being friends. Really. On most days.

Today… Today she doesn't want to be his friend.

Not when she's lying beside him and he's looking at her like he does. They're both lying on their sides, facing each other. He reaches out to run his finger over her nose delicately, his other hand lodged under his cheek. She can tell something is on his mind.

Now that Indra is President it's really over. The fighting, the waking up and not knowing what the day might bring. It's an uneasy feeling. A good feeling, mostly. She thinks. "What now?" She's asked the question before, but never at the right person.

He exhales heavily, but then one of his eyebrows quirks up and he's back to being an asshole. "I don't know. I never thought we'd live this long."

She lets out a short, dry mocking laugh, punching him in the shoulder. He actually laughs, loud and and warm and good, his hand sliding down to rest on her waist. She puts up a finger before he gets any ideas—he knows she's ticklish. "Don't you dare."

His laughter fades, but he's still grinning absentmindedly, fingers tightening on her flesh, just a little. He's also staring, _just a little_ , she notes. She's mostly used to it. Nowadays, he needs some more time to try and collect his thoughts, try and separate the real memories from the fake. Finally, because sometimes he still needs her help with that, he says, "You love me. Real or not real?"

She doesn't even have to think about it anymore. It comes naturally, like breathing and painting and baking. She loves Bellamy. "Real."

When he doesn't say anything else—for a painfully long minute in which her heart manages to squeeze in at least five-hundred breakneck beats under his strong gaze—she presses, "And?"

His adam's apple bobs up and down heavily, his hand trailing further down her side to her hip. Her sleep-shirt has ridden up a little, and she can see the tension in his shoulders as his warm fingers come in contact with her soft flesh. _It's okay,_ she wants to tell him, _I trust you_. But he knows this and she doesn't want to seem to eager, put him under too much pressure.

She adjusts her head on her pillow, so she's closer to his. Her short blonde hair fanned out behind her. Some of the tension in his posture deflates, his thumb moving tentatively over her skin. He follows her lead, now just inches between the two of them. His breath is warm on her face. As he speaks, blood rushes into her ears, making her a little dizzy. "You're _in_ love with me. Real or not real?"

"Real."

His mouth meets her in the middle, and she makes a quiet sound as her bottom lip slides between his. Steady, warm, like a fire—their lips moving together. He pulls away after a moment, and she finds herself chasing his kiss. Yet, his hands are on her shoulders firmly, holding her back. His eyes raking her face, hesitant. "Clarke—you sure?"

"Bellamy," she sighs, then reaches out to run her finger over the crease in his brow, smooth it out. She smiles, fond, pressing a quick, close-lipped kiss to his mouth, their lips barely grazing. She keeps her eyes closed, touching her forehead to his as she fingers the collar of his shirt. "I've never been so sure of anything else in my life."

Her eyes flutter open, catching his gaze. When she licks her lips, his eyes darken at the peek of her tongue, eyelids drooping to focus on her mouth. Suddenly, like he can't take it anymore, he dips his head and their lips are reconnected. Hers part to fit around his and before she knows it she's on top of him. Her hands start to act on their own intuition, scrambling for purchase on his t-shirt as she tries to yank it over his head.

Her shirt is next, and his grip tightens on her shoulders, drawing her against his chest. Her head is swimming, his taste familiar but new and exciting all at the same time. Warm and sweet, like those berry studded muffins he's always begging her to bake. She lets out a small gasp as his mouth starts trailing kisses down her jaw, her throat, feels his smile against her skin more than she sees it, her hands clutching desperately at him. "Bellamy."

He lifts his face from the crook of her neck, cups her cheek, thumb sweeping over her cheekbone. His hooded eyes are nearly black with want, but there's also something more, something affectionate, something intimate and sincere. "I love you, too, you know that, right?" He pauses, then clarifies, "I'm _in_ love with you."

"I do," she breathes, heart pounding in her ears, "I know," and she kisses him again, slower now. Taking time to map every inch of his skin, every scar and bump and bruise, all the golden skin and planes of tantalizing muscles, greedily running her hands through his dark curls. They had that now—time.

No, that day—that day they weren't friends. Once, he told her he wasn't sure what they were. _Friend, lover, victor, enemy, target, mutt, ally_. In that moment, as she stretched out onto her stomach, him following her, half-resting his weight on her back, his sweat-slick skin slipping against hers. As he folds his arm around her belly, nuzzling the back of her neck, pressing his lips to her jaw as she turned her face to the side. As he temporarily lifted his hand from her side to brush away some hair from her eyes, his soft, warm brown eyes on hers. In that moment, they would always be more than friends, more than labels.

He's her home, and she is his.

* * *

She's watching Bellamy with Cassie, pushing her on the swing he build from old trees and car tires with Anya last summer. Her full name is Cassiopeia Luna Blake. He named her, too. After one of his favorite memories with her mother, he told her. It's kind of his thing now, naming babies.

Cassie's giddy laughter is contagious, and Clarke finds herself grinning along, even as Gus starts to cry in her arms. She rocks him gently, shushing him lightly. Cassie is taken with her father, but Gus still likes her best, still loves her voice more than anything in the world. So she talks.

"Did you have a nightmare?" She shifts him in her arms, his little face an angry red and his nose scrunched up as he cries and cries and cries and Clarke doesn't understand how he can still _breathe._ "I have nightmares, too. Someday I'll explain it to you. Why they came, why they won't ever go away."

She swallows thickly, looking back out at the rest of her family. Bellamy lifted Cassie out of the swing, now balancing her on his hip as he intently listens to their daughter babble on about something, pointing at the woods with her plump little finger. It still hurts, the memories, but not as much as they did before. It's no longer a sharp pain every time she breathes, more a vague discomfort always slumbering in the background. They're working on replacing them, the two of them, one bad memory at a time.

She looks back down at Gus. His full name is Augustus Lincoln Blake. He picked Augustus, for his sister, and Clarke picked Lincoln, for choosing to show her kindness when she was at one of the lowest points in her life. "You know, you're named after a brave girl, Octavia. When she was little your daddy used to tell her to slay her demons when she was awake, so they couldn't get to her at night." The cries slowly start to subdue, and Clarke finds herself smiling as she runs her finger over his cheek delicately to wipe away the wetness. He's so tiny, all dark hair and dark eyes and bronzed skin. "That's what I did, too. So you could have a better life."

Up until she had children of her own, she didn't really understand Harper's letter back then. _We owe it to their memories and to our children to do the best with these lives._ Now she does. She sways Gus lightly, cooes ' _good job_ ' when he smiles, unwrapping the blanket around him so he has more room to move. Her own grin turns wistful. "I hope one day you'll understand why I did what I did. It wasn't pretty." Gus finds her finger and starts gnawing on her knuckle with his gums. "It wasn't good."

She looks back out at her husband and their daughter, giggling as he throws her up into the air and catches her. Bellamy was really worried the first time. That he wouldn't make a good dad. Clarke was never. She knew he would be. He was a natural. "But I found peace, and I hope one day you can give me your forgiveness."

They've through a lot together, Bellamy and she. But she thinks the best is yet to come.

* * *

 **fin.**


End file.
